METRE RAMAL MAQSŪR.

IN the spring-time, like a rose, go, pitch thy tent where roses twine,

Take thy place where sit the fair ones, let thy cup brim high with wine.

On the wild winds fling thy thumb-worn tomes and, like barbarian, cast

Fire on stored-up hoards of wisdom, garnered relics of the past.

Makhfi, in sweet hours of spring-tide, though the gardener rate and scold,

Pluck from this parterre a rose-bud, set it in thy turban’s fold.