غزل شمارهٔ 323

Through my short (feeble) arm, beneath grief's load, am I : For, of those of lofty stature ashamed, am I.

Perchance, my hand, the chain of the hair (of Thy tress) will take ; If not, in distraughtness, my head I bring forth.

Of my (sleepless) eye, ask the plane of the spheres, For, night to day, the stars, I count.

Thankfully, the cup of the lip, I kiss for this, That, me, it acquainted with time's mystery.

If, for the wine-sellers, a prayer I uttered, What is it ? the duty of favour, I offer.

Thanks many, I owe to my (feeble) arm ; In that the strength of the man-in jurer, I have not.

A head like intoxicated Hafiz, I have : But, Hope, in the grace of that chief I have.