Without the beloved's face, the rose — is not pleasant.
Without wine, spring — is not pleasant.

The border of the sward and the air of the garden
Without the (beloved of) tulip cheek — is not pleasant.

With the beloved, sugar of lip, rose of body,
(To be) without kiss and embrace — is not pleasant.

The dancing of the cypress, and the rapture of the rose,
Without the song of the hazar — is not pleasant.

Every picture that reason's hand depicteth,
Save the picture of the (living beauteous) idol — is not pleasant.

(When) the rose is in the bosom,
wine in the hand,
And the beloved to my desire, —
on such a day, the world's Sultan is my slave.

Say, into this assembly bring ye no candle for to-night.
In our assembly the moon of the Friend's face is full.

In our order (of profligates)
the wine-cup is lawful;
But O Cypress, rose of body!
without thy face (presence), unlawful.

In our assembly (of lovers),
mix not its (perfume);
For our soul every moment receiveth perfume
from the fragrance of the tip of thy tress.

From the garden of union with thee,
(even) the garden of Rizvan (Paradise) gain lustre of joy;
From the torment of separation from thee,
(even) hell's flame hath torment.

In the beauty of thy cheek and stature,
shelter have taken Paradise and the tuba (tree).
For them, it (the shelter) is good;
and a good place of returning (from this world).

All night (even) as my eye (seeth,
so) the stream of Paradise
Seeth in sleep
the image of thy intoxicated eye (of mercy).

In every season,

I have made a compact with the mistress of my soul,
that so long as I have a soul within my body
I will hold as mine own soul the well-wishers of her village.
In the privacy of my breast I see light from that taper of Chighil;
splendor to mine eye and brightness to my heart
from that moon of Khoten.
Since in accordance with my wishes and yearnings
I have gained the privacy of my breast,
why need I care for the slander of evil speakers
in the midst of the crowd?
If a hundred armies of lovely ones should be lying in ambush

The S HULAMITE M AIDEN Recounts H ER L OVER'S W OOING

The voice of my beloved!
Behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains,
Skipping upon the hills.

My beloved is like a roe or a young hart:
Behold, he standeth behind our wall,
He looketh forth at the windows,
He showeth himself through the lattice.

My beloved spake, and said unto me:
Rise up, my love!
Rise up, my fair one!
And come away;

Love will outwatch the stars, and light the skies
When the last star falls, and the silent dark devours;
God's warrior, he will watch the allotted hours,
And conquer with the look of his sad eyes:
He shakes the kingdom of darkness with his sighs,
His quiet sighs, while all the Infernal Powers
Tremble and pale upon their central towers,
Lest, haply, his bright universe arise.

All will be well if he have strength to wait,
Till his lost Pleiad, white and silver-shod,
Regains her place to make the perfect Seven;

Because you are dead, so many words they say,
If you could hear them, how they crowd, they crowd;
" Dying for England — but you must be proud " —
And " Greater love, honour, a debt to pay, "
And " Cry dear, " someone says; and someone " Pray! "
What do they mean, their words that throng so loud?

This, dearest; that for us there will not be
Laughter and joy of living dwindling cold,
Ashes of words that dropped in flame, first told;
Stale tenderness, made foolish suddenly.
This only, heart's desire, for you and me,

Where the purple heather blooms
Among the rocks sae gray—
Where the moor-cock's whirring flight,
Is heard at break of day—
Where Scotland's bagpipes ring
Alang the mountain's breast—
Where laverocks lilting sing,
Is the place that I love best!

Where the lonely shepherd tends
His bleating hill-side flock—
Where the raven bigs its nest
In the crevice of a rock—
Where a guardian beacon-tower
Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest,
To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens,
Is the place that I love best!

A white, high-battlemented castle,
Set in the heart and centre of a rainbow,
With rain-weighed trees nodding around it,
And a great sward flowing up and down;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

A summer pool by silence haunted,
Deep in the greenness lit by water-lilies,
Where there are kingfishers, and the unreaped grasses
Whisper soft secrets to the listless winds;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

And night, and the stars, and naught beside,
But in your heart of hearts a brimming wonder,

Gods, get me out of it!
Spirits of Laughter
Come to my aid now
And exorcise it!
O you, Priapus,
Stand till you're skyward,
Stand till you're all staff
And cannot rise it!
Let your preposterous
Pole fall upon her:
" That for her honour! "
Let not a thought now
Of comfort escape us:
Think what in boisterous,
Blowing Jack Falstaff,
Shakespeare made Love look.
Think how that cheerful
Chiel Hippocleides
Would this my fearful
Passion disparage;
Dancing incessantly,
Dancing indecently,