How is it thou art fallen thus so low? Why do thy brows this mournful cowl disgrace, And thou, why art thou seated in the dust? Love in thy very countenance is writ, And love’s wound plainly has transfixed thy heart. Art thou in love? How has thy passion fared? Now is the time to tell, so tell me true.” Now as these words the Bulbul listened to, She roused in Gulgul joy and love’s delight. “Thou seest here,” said he, “a mendicant, With tearful eyes, that plead to pity’s soul. ’Tis love has lessoned me in sorrow’s school, But never have I learned what is my name. Thou askest me the place from which I come, Love is my origin and native land. My foot turns backward still to beckoning love; ’Tis love inspires and gives me genius; For I am one whose mind is crazed by love; And in the world I wander lost for love. Heedless I hurry by, nor care for rest, Yet travel cannot give the balm I crave. And often to my love I give full rein, Until I am not master of my mind; And at the will of love, am driven adrift, And therefore ever wait I love’s behest; In short, this love pang quite o’ermasters me, And takes away from me the power of choice. Now I am brainless, footless, purposeless, Tossed like a plaything at the whim of Fate. I am constrained by love, and driven along Hither and thither like an autumn leaf. I have no other impulse in my soul, Where love and love alone predominates. The shame of love is more than honor’s meed To me, and more than fortune’s smile. The very gloom of love is sweet to me, For what were worldly bliss without this flame? The hand of pleasure has made smooth and clear The mirror of my heart with Love’s own glass. Love is no shame, for love is happiness; True shame in worldly happiness is found.”