In gardens’ muteness, in spring, in the nights’ mist,

Over a rose sings the nightingale of East.

But doesn’t feel anything nor hear this charming rose,

And to the loving hymn just swings and calmly dozes.

Not in this way you sing for beauty, cold and hard?

Come to your senses, bard, where do you stream your heart?

She does not hear nor feel the poet’s soul, fervent;

You look—she is in bloom, you call—the answer’s absent.