غزل شمارهٔ 125

That one is not the beloved, who hath a hair and a waist: Be the slave of the form of that one who, ravishingness to the highest degree, hath.

Although the way of the angels is pleasant, yet That is loveliness and gracefulness that a certain one hath.

O laughing rose! discover the fountain of my eye, That, in hope of thee, a torrent of sweet water hath.

From thee, who taketh the ball of beauty, when the sun here Is not a horseman, that in his hand, a rein hath?

Heart-sitting became my speech since thou acceptedest it: Yes, yes; an impression, love’s speech hath.

In the craft of arrow-casting, the curve of thy eye-brow It taketh from every one who, a bow hath.

In love’s path, none with certainty became the confidant of the mystery: According to his understanding, every one an idea hath.

With the tavern-haunters, boast not of generosity: Every word, a time; every subtlety, a place hath.

The wise bird goeth not, song-singing, in its sward, Every spring in whose rear, an autumn hath.

To the claimant, say: “To Hafez, boast not thy jest and subtlety: “ A tongue and an explanation our reed also hath.