'Twas morning, and the Lord of day
  Had shed his light ' Shiraz' towers,
Where bulbous trill their love-lorn lay
  To serenade the maiden flowers.
  
Like them, oppressed by love's sweet pain
  I wander in a garden fair;
And there, to cool my throbbing brain,
  I woo the perfumed morning air.

The damask rose with beauty gleams,
  Its face all bathed in ruddy light,
And shines like some bright star that beams
  From out the sombre veil of night.

The very bulbul, as the glow
  Of pride and passion warms its breast,
Forgets awhile its former woe
  In pride that conquers love's unrest.

The lily seemed to menace me,
  And showed its curved and quivering blade,
While every frail anemone
  A gossip's open mouth displayed.

And here and there a graceful group
  Of flowers, like men who worship wine,
Each raising up his little stoup
  To catch the dew-drop's draught divine.

And others yet like Hebes stand,
  Their dripping vases downward turned,
As if dispensing to the band
  The wine for which their hearts had burned.

This moral it is mine to sing:
  Go learn a lesson of the flowers;
Joy's season is in life's young spring,
  Then seize, like them, the fleeting hours.