The Enchantment of the Roses

From what branch did you fly, O nightingale?
And did the spring know of your parting?!
Song, then, would have died in its breast,
and the rill dried up upon its lashes;
the roses slew themselves upon their thorns,
and the north wind turned azure with fragrance,
hastening to pour out its breaths
as perfume upon your feet, O nightingale.

O visitor to Lebanon, the birds
and the brook have hurried to meet you:
on the green slopes lies the sprinkling of dew,
on the knolls lie carpets of velvet;
the flowers have spilled out their flasks,
the wheat-ears have bent with longing for you,
the palms have craned their necks,
and their swaying branches have clapped;
the cedars have rejoiced, as though the nights
had brought back to them their first dream —
the days when Ashtarut upon their slopes
wandered, asking after her gazelle.
Since her age there has not passed through Lebanon
a voice more tender, or a lovelier breeze.

O enchantment of the roses in their blossom,
O laughter of the sun and all it bears,
O twittering of the birds at their wedding,
O tenderness of the water and all it carries:
come down with the rain upon our land,
revel there, and tickle its ear till it is drunken;
in every eye there is a shelter for you,
and in every poet's heart a temple.