Classic Poem

When the time for the bloom of the roses comes,
Gentle are the showers that are falling on the meadows;
Whose fortune is there that can rival his,
Whose steps lead him to wander through the gardens?
To-day good luck is on my side:
May my destiny be ever so friendly to me,
That my stay should be in such a lovely spot,
As famed like it is none other in Hindustan.
Had the Abdal's eyes but lit upon this place,
All other regions would they have forsaken for it.
Midst its meadows the waters wander wildly,
Through its turf the streams run ever on;
With such pure and limpid waters,
How it triumphs over Cashmere's Shalimar.
Men's eyes brighten, and their hearts rejoice,
As the water of its fountains sprinkle round.
As the water rises now, then falls again,
One would say that round it pearls are strewn about.
Where the fountains of white marble are found planted,
Lovelier far that spot than Iran's vaunted scenes;
Thou wouldst say it was the thundering of the Heavens,
Where the river pours its waters down the falls:
If there be that cross the bosom of the lakes,
They would say that on a mirror is their way.
On the waters are the wild-fowl ever diving,
Before the Palace seated one enjoys the Falcon's sport.
One would say they are the flames of Nimrod's fire,
So scattered are bright Tulips through the mead.
The Roses there their charms have wove together;
Like a warrior armed, their spears are by their sides.
All around are the meadows in full bloom
Of the Iris and the Lily, gallant show,
In that garden flowers are there, they are not scanty,
Of all their number, what tongue is there can take account?
Be they Roses, or Violets, or Tulips:
By their sight is my heart now soothed to rest.
May I devote myself to the Creator of these works,
Since from his mighty hands such beauties have been produced.
All its trees rise as though in rivalry with the Heavens,
Overtowering all is the lofty Deodar.
Of countless natures are the tunings of the birds,
When from the Deodars their concert loud is heard;
From the tuneful pipings of these minstrels,
Not from the breeze, come the rustlings of the trees.
In it of snowy plaster a mansion fine is placed,
Through every room in which the splashing waters run.
Three hundred are the paths that run amidst it,
Each one whiter than the whitest linen robe.
The mildness of its breezes is beyond all description,
Were one ill for eighty years there, would one soon be well;
Were the old men to remain there, soon would they be youths,
Such is my belief in the power of its breeze.
A building such as this would find its place in Paradise,
Were its guardians but aware of these delights.
All its praises are far beyond all count;
Were I to relate them, it would take up a book.
By Asaf Khan were its foundations laid,
Now by Khurrum's orders is the work proceeding.
It was the thousand and fifty-ninth year of the Hejra,
The twelfth day of the New Year, I wrote these verses.
Since from Khush-hal has come such lengthy speech,
Good sense forbids that extended it should be!