1. Grace your morn with a mind aloof from spite's decrees,
Since life is naught but sipping the smooth subtle breeze.

2. Life is naught but drinking it betimes at break of morn,
Golden, distilled midst the homesteads Qatrabul loved.

3. For the stricken's heart it pictures a dream's caprice,
And softens the aloof's obdurate fantasies.

4. As if its drinker through its sweet breath's waft,
Met at his sipping places clouds of carnations.

5. Once through the damsels' curtains I thrust me fain,
Smiles and bright glances met me in that bower.

6. From the talk I chanced on a savour of delight,
And the speaker knew of me — I knew naught of her plight.