غزل شمارهٔ 9

The splendor of youth’s time again belongeth to the garden; The glad tidings of the rose reacheth the bulbul sweet of song.

O breeze! if again thou reach the youths of the meadow, Convey our service to the cypress, the rose, and the sweet basil.

If the young Magian, wine-seller, display such splendor, I will make my eye-lash the dust-sweeper of the door of the wine-house.

O thou that drawest, over the moon, the polo of purest ambergris, Make not distraught of state, me of revolving head.

This crowd that laugheth at those drinking the wine-dregs, I fear? They will, in the end, ruin their Faith.

Be the friend of the men of God; for, in Noah’s ark, Was a little dust, that purchased not the deluge for a drop of water.

Forth from the house of the sphere, go; and bread, seek not. For, in the end, this dark cup slayeth the guest.

To him, whose last sleeping-place is with two handfuls of earth, Say “Thine what need to exalt the turrets to the sky?”

My moon of Kan’an! the throne of Egypt is thine: The time is that when thou shouldst did farewell to the prison.

Hafez! drink wine; practice profligacy and be happy; but, Like others, make not the Kuran the snare of deceit.