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O COME, my Love, for I am worn and wasted,

I have no longer strength nor will to wait;

My heart bears countless wounds and I have tasted

The poisonous anguish of the shafts of fate.

Breeze of the dawn, come, see the wild confusion

The fell simoom has wrought in all my bowers;

Only my heart’s blood with a strange illusion

Colours the parterre erst so gay with flowers.

Just so Love’s flowers are blasted. Other traces

Are none but hearts wounded and bleeding sore.

All that is fair the surge of time effaces:

Khusrau is gone and Shirin is no more.