The breeze of spring makes of the garden a wine-tavern. It casts buds into jar-shapes, and makes of flowers cups.

When love attains its climax, then no rivalry remains. In flitting round a candle; moths join hands with one another.

Life builds, but also burns; and what it burns it builds again. How ruthlessly it burns! How eagerly it builds!

An eagle in a cage, when he accepts food offered, becomes so timid that he trembles on seeing shadows of quails’ wings.

O gardener, tell Iqbal to be off from the garden, for this spellbinding singer makes men forget the roses.