The East Wind calmly on the vagrant gazed, Whose heart and soul were lit with raging flame, And said, “Now tell to me, thou shameless one, Where are thy courtesy and manners fled? Whence can a beggar claim such dignity, That he in love could ask a princess bride? What spurs and flogs thee on to such extremes? Beware, or thou will lose at last thy wits. Compare her loftiness with thy estate; What can a beggar want of royalty? The Rose is winsome in a thousand ways, The Nightingale is but a singer clear; Although a thousand times thy love thou sing, Hope not the Rose’s fragrant charm to win. Whence dost thou gain such fitting dower of worth, As makes thee fit to mate the balmy Rose? Abandon passion, with its torments sore, And shun this emptiness of wild desire. For even should’st thou live a thousand years, Ne’er wilt thou reach the level of the Rose. And though thou cry Gulgul a thousand times, Thou never wilt arouse the lady’s heart. Refrain, then, further to torment thyself, Nor strike on iron cold thine idle blows.” Now when the Nightingale had heard these words, He burst into a passionate lament; And said: “Although I but a dervish be, Yet still the wounds that pain my heart are fresh. A beggar am I in my outward guise, But I am none the less love’s padishah. Love makes me independent in the world, Such beggary as mine is worth a crown. I love the Rose, and shall forever love, And a fakir may sometimes love a shah; Sense is indeed the guide of sober life, But sense is never fostered by true love; The lover in his acts is privileged, As is the drunkard and the beggar-man. He who would moderation value first, Can never taste the luxury of love. The lover who is shamefaced and reserved Can never see the beauty which is coy. Until the lover scorns the public blame He gains no trust nor kindness from his love. Though I have no enjoyment of the Rose, ’Tis joy enough for me to speak of her. Though no return reward my passion’s pain, Yet love itself is fair enough for me, And he who knows the harmony of love Will think enjoyment less than absence is. Who lives in full fruition of his love Is always fearing it will fly away; He who contentedly has watched its flight Is happy hoping it will soon return. Absence to me is love and dignity, Although fruition be denied my heart. I live in agony’s o’erflowing stream And love’s fruition willingly renounce.” The East Wind saw that it was vain to try The ardor of this beggar wight to quench, For counsel did not profit him a jot. His love kept burning like an aloe-flower, And all his words were emphasized by sighs, And his heat withered him like foliage parched. And so he left him, and pursued his way Into the precints of the rose garden;