Repair to Kashmir’s land and see hills, meadows, pastures, wealds. See miles on miles of greenery and endless tulip-fields.

Whiff after whiff spring breezes blow, and hosts of birds of spring – the thrush, the quail, the dove – all go from place to place and sing.

To hide it from the jealous sky the earth veils its fair face behind a complex tracery of shrubs that interlace.

The tulips burst forth from the earth; the waves leap up in streams. Look at the sparks the dust puts forth and the waves’ silver seams.

Come bring your lute and strike its strings, and fill your cup with wine, and let there be gay gatherings to greet spring’s caravan.

Look at that highborn Brahmin maid, lily-limbed, tulip-faced, look at her and feel yourself fade into someone low-placed.