The humid clouds of spring float over the enamelled meads,
And, like my eyes, dissolve in tears.
My fancy seeks thee in all places; and the beauties
Of Nature retrace, at every moment,
Thy enchanting image. But thou, O cruel fair one!
Thou endeavourest to efface from thy memory
The recollection of my ardent love—my tender constancy.
Thy charms eclipse the growing tulip—
Thy graceful stature puts to shame the lofty cyprus.
Let every nymph, although equal in beauty to Shireen,[10]