Make ready, little maid; sweet is the gleam
That lightens this ill night, soft clouds will weep,
The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath
Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep,
The kindly myrtles shadow all our parth.
Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so,
That I shall find my love; speak and we go
On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing
Of banished doves—now, I will chant of woe,
And though my song be doleful, blithe I sing."