There is neither pledge nor pity in the beauty of the rose

For the nightingale, whose sorrow in melodious madness flows;

Though the brown bird sang for ever till its singing spirit fled,

Still the rose would greet the west wind with its petals’ perfect red.

Once a songster in the garden chanted to a scornful rose,

‘Cease thy scorn, for in the hedges many a fairer blossom grows.’

Then the rose made answer smiling, ‘Singer, thou hast spoken sooth,

But no lover e’er addresses lover with so little ruth.

‘Think not how the roses wither, be but gay while roses bloom,

For the world’s delight is little in the shadow of the tomb.’

Hafiz, if you sang more sweetly than the wind among the reeds,

She you love is but the rose tree, and the rose tree never heeds.