By the sweet stream of Mosellay,
Singing of vineyards and of flowers
To pass the fleeting time away,
Tells how the blood of Ferhad’s wound
Had stain’d fair Nature’s mantle green,
Sprinkling with ruddy spots the ground
Before the feet of fair Shireen.
The tulip from his blood arose
Beside her path in that sad hour.
Displaying how its leaves inclose