To the one whose heart is full of happiness,
As though he's going to make his home in Paradise:
If the wind blows your sash, with its silver branches,
On the mountain-rock with the shining white moon,
You can catch that golden streamlet with your face.
A river running is a snake with a long tail—
And a face of cunning on lofty heights—
But do not be misled by its appearance:
The serpent plays a game but fears the net,
And ills you not once you have matched his dance.