Of rose gardens the Bulbul is the muse, And thus begins her clear and thrilling song: The Rose of simple mind and tender mood, With frank heart, and with disposition kind, Has chosen for the servants of her house A band of trusty followers true of heart. The first was guardian of the sherbet cup; Comrade of laughter, tears, and genial hours; Each morning she the rose-water prepared, The crimson-tinted wine that scents the glade. ’Twas the delight and joy of the Divan, And shared the name and honors of the dew. Another was the cheerful cup-bearer. Ruby his belt, and his cup a carbuncle; With rosy cheeks he was conspicuous, For loveliness of lip the painter’s choice. His inmost bosom was the home of love, And tinged blood-red with passionate desire. He drank the wine that fed his passion’s fire, And never failed the wine cup to his hand. He was the chief at each Rose festival, And the guests called him by the Tulip’s name. Another was the garden’s eye, and seemed The very lamp and eyelight to the grove. So full of contemplation was his face, So full of meditation’s sober glance. The radiance of his eye was in its orb, And wise men saw that it was crystal clear. This was the prophet of the sinless glance, Who stood the president of the Divan. Five golden coins he found, and in his hand He bore them on the petals of his cup: He handed round the goblet night and day, And late and early was he drunk with wine; So long as wine was flowing, at his board He would not close his eye till dawn of day. The eye-glance of the close in sooth was he, And in the rose-bed is Narcissus called; And since he holds his goblet in his hand The gold Cup is he among flowerets named. Sword-Bearer was another waiting-man; The guardian of the spacious Rosary; He bore his naked sword behind the Rose, And night and day he closely guarded her. A fencer of incomparable skill Was he, in short, the prefect of the burg. A valiant Cerberus and dragon he, Whose sword and dagger never left his hand. He was in very truth a trusty slave, And wide and free his reputation spread. In the rose garden his acquaintances Had styled him the Free Lily of the glade. And there was still another, free as he, Whose form had grown as lofty as his mind; Towering he stood, with high and graceful head, He was the very emir of the grove. Tall as a column did he seem to rise, And as an arrow straight his course he took; And so in Gulistan by day and night He watched as porter at the entrance gate. By night and day his faithful watch he kept, Upright to stand was what he most desired; He recked not that his day-long post was hard, While on one foot he stood before the gate; He was a man of stature eminent A mighty man, and Cypress was his name.