When the Sheets Have Yonder Torment to Their

When the sheets have yonder Torment to their bosom ta'en to rest,
Think I: "Hides the night-adorning Moon within the cloudlet's breast."

In the dawning, O thou turtle, mourn not with those senseless plaints;
In the bosom of some stately cypress thou'rt a nightly guest.

Why thou weepest from the heavens, never can I think, O dew;
Every night some lovely rose's bosom fair thou enterest.

Hath the pearl seen in the story of thy teeth its tale of shame,
Since the sea hath hid the album of the shell within its breast?

Longing for thy cheeks, hath Bâqî all his bosom marked with scars.
Like as though he'd cast of rose-leaves fresh a handful o'er his chest.