From The Persian Of Kermani

In Farsistan the violet spreads Its leaves to the rival sky; I ask how far is the Tigris flood, And the vine that grows thereby?

Except the amber morning wind, Not one salutes me here; There is no lover in all Bagdat To offer the exile cheer.

I know that thou, O morning wind! O'er Kernan's meadow blowest, And thou, heart-warming nightingale! My father's orchard knowest.

The merchant hath stuffs of price, And gems from the sea-washed strand, And princes offer me grace To stay in the Syrian land;

But what is gold for, but for gifts? And dark, without love, is the day; And all that I see in Bagdat Is the Tigris to float me away.