One balmy morning when the night had fled And made surrender to the light of day, When buds had oped their eyelids once again, And nodded in the wind o’er all the earth, The Nightingale in utter misery sat, A wretched outcast in a cheerless world. His song had but increased his pang of woe, And now his silence tortured him the more. And suddenly the East Wind comes to him, The East Wind, nourisher of nature’s life; As his eyes fell upon the Nightingale, Within his mind a pang of pity smote, And hand in hand with him the Cypress moved. He found no balm to heal the bird of woe. The bird, deep stabbed by separation’s blade, For his friend’s fate he could not find escape. Nor would he trample on the pining wretch, Whose life seemed feeble as a fleeting shade. Then came he near and gracious greeted him, The bird made answer with a burst of sighs. “Welcome, good sir,” the East Wind said to him, “What breeze has brought thee to a haven here? Why is it that thou pinest thus in song? Does absence from thy loved one cause thy woe? How wasted and how lean thy countenance! Thou art forespent by all thy sufferings; Thine eyes are swimming in the tears of grief, Thy heart is bleeding from its passion’s pain. What can have thus disturbed thy being’s depth? Thank God, that thou art now before a friend! Thou in the Rose’s palace dwellest now, Why art thou not as happy as the Rose? Since thou art not defrauded of thy hope, Good fortune surely must have smiled on thee. Here thou art dwelling in a lonesome realm, Why shouldst thou manifest such grief and woe? What pleasure canst thou find in dolorous song, Oh, say, poor wretch, what pleasure canst thou find?” The lean-faced bird made answer with a sigh, And said: “O friend, companion of my grief, Though in the rose garden I now abide, I am no less a singer of laments. For still the door that leads to her I love Is shut upon me, as thou well canst see. Still like a pilgrim I am stranger here, And still my Mecca’s light is closed to me. The knife of grief is fixed within my breast, And absence from my love has laid me low; Absence has robbed me of the food of life, Absence has cast a gloom o’er my delight. Still in a friend I see nor trust nor stay, And a friend’s presence still new torture gives. Though outwardly I am in good estate, Still am I distant from my dear delight. I cannot yet enjoy my best beloved, And patient resolution fails in me. I see no sunlight in whose rays to trust; But myriad griefs and sorrows meet my gaze. O’er my distress all human pity sleeps And my great heap of anguish mounts to heaven. And no one pleads my cause before my love, That she should show compassion on my plight. Thus by my ardent passion worn away,