“The purple budlets show a new year’s wounds are nigh,
And tears are dropping from the mist—itself a sigh.
“The buds and flowers are laughing at the nightingale,
For though they’re wingless, yet they live within the flowery pale.
“From out the turf, the narcissus seems like a scar
Upon the ground, of winter—who still has not passed far.”
From Shaik Ahmad Takhti, about A.D. 1770:—
“Come with me and view the forest’s treasury now,
The silver’s turned to gold, and yet the trees in sorrow bow.
“The treasury and I, we both are weak and desolate,