With the first ray, or rather grey of morn,

Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn,

Arrayed herself with mantle, gem, and veil.

The Nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,

Which fable places in her breast of wail,

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those

Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.