UNTO the garden floats the wandering air

To tell the roses that are waiting there

The tidings of thy coming; soft and sweet

Their petals open as they kiss thy feet.

If from thy moon-like face the veil arise,

No more will Yusuf turn regretful eyes

Homeward to Canaan: he will only see

Thy face, and offer all his love to thee.

No remedy can heal the heart’s distress

Except the vision of thy loveliness.

Here, suffering souls, the solace that you need!

Tear not your wounds, no longer make them bleed.

How difficult the hunted deer to find,

Although his scent be left upon the wind;

How hard to reach thee, though thine every tress

Breathes musk of Khotan through the wilderness!

O happy Makhfi! fortunate thy day!

For thou at the Belovèd’s feet may lay

Thy song in homage; happier still, if thou

Sing rapturously evermore as now!