غزل شمارهٔ 326

In the secret house of my ease (the heart), a sweet idol (the true Beloved), I have : From Whose tress-tip and cheek, the horse-shoe (of agitation) in the. fire I have.

With loud shout, me (they call) lover, profligate, wine-drinker ! From that Hur, like the Pari, all I have.

If, in this way, me, resourceless Thou keep, With a morning-sigh, dishevelled, Thy tress, I keep.

If the ruddish beard of the Friend display like this its face (of splendour), With bloody water, my yellow (grief-stricken) face painted (ruddy) I have.

If to the abode of profligates, a pace Thou wilt take, The sweetmeat of sweet verse, and unalloyed wine, I have.

From the path of the tress, bring the arrow of the glance. For, With my wounded heart, calamity-enduring, contests I have.

O Hafiz ! when a-vanishing are the world's grief and joy, That is best that, my own heart, happy I have.