غزل شمارهٔ 49

In the accidents of night there is naught can me affright, seeing that the night is borne by the wheeling stars to morn.

Of its station unaware, it has fallen in its own snare, this thy love that did arise from thy supplicating cries.

When the heart gives forth a sigh, ’tis of burning inwardly; let it not thy lips defile; break it in thy breast, and smile!

None remains in tavern now; beg of Nature’s saki thou the rich wine that cannot pass in the drinkers’ narrow glass.

Not with mosque and chanted verse, not with learning schools rehearse to repose returns the heart when its Darling doth depart.