The roses of Ispahan

The roses of Ispahan in their sheath of moss,

the jasmines of Mosul, the orange blossoms,

have a fragrance less fresh, an aroma less sweet,

O pale Leila, than your light breath!

Your lips are coral and your light laughter

has a softer and lovelier sound than rippling water,

lovelier than the joyous breeze that rocks the orange-tree,

lovelier than the bird that sings near its nest of moss.

But the subtle fragrance of the roses in their moss,

the breeze that plays around the orange-tree

and the spring-water flowing with its plaintive murmur

have a more certain charm than your fickle love!

O Leila, ever since in their airy flight

all the kisses have fled from your lips so sweet,

there is no longer any fragrance from the pale orange-tree,

no heavenly aroma from the roses in the moss.

The bird, in its nest of moist feathers or moss,

sings no more among the roses and orange-trees;

the springs in the gardens have lost their soft song;

and dawn no longer gilds the pure and weightless sky.

Oh, if only your youthful love, that light butterfly,

would return to my heart on swift and gentle wings,

and perfume once more the orange blossom

and the roses of Ispahan in their sheath of moss.