Repair to Kashmir’s land and see
Hills, meadows, pastures, wealds.
See miles on miles of greenery
And endless tulip-fields.

Whiff after whiff spring breezes blow,
And hosts of birds of spring –
The thrush, the quail, the dove – all go
From place to place and sing.

To hide it from the jealous sky
The earth veils its fair face
Behind a complex tracery
Of shrubs that interlace.

The tulips burst forth from the earth;
The waves leap up in streams.
Look at the sparks the dust puts forth
And the waves’ silver seams.

Come bring your lute and strike its strings,
And fill your cup with wine,
And let there be gay gatherings
To greet spring’s caravan,

Look at that highborn Brahmin maid,
Lily-limbed, tulip-faced
Look at her and feel yourself fade
Into someone low-placed.