The days are ended of winter long; the branches quiver with living song.

The breeze in beauty arrays the rose as from the river it gently blows.

The tulip’s lantern in desert bare is fanned to brightness, by the spring air.

Sad, mid the roses, my heart doth dwell, yea, from the meadow flees the gazelle;

A little eases with grief and pain or like a bill-stream laments again.

Lest my heart’s passion may softer grow, not to the trusty I’ll tell my woe.