غزل شمارهٔ 465

One morning to the garden I went a rose to pluck, Suddenly, came to my ear the clamour of a bulbul.

Like me, wretched, in love for a rose, entangled he was ; And into the sward, by hi* plaint, cast a clamour.

Momently, in that garden-sward, I sauntered ; On that rose and bulbul, I kept a-musing.

The rose became the lover of the thorn ; and the bulbul, the associate of love (and its pain) ; Not a change to this (the rose) ; nor to that (the bulbul), a change.

When, in my heart, the bulbul's voice impression made, I so became that mine remained not a particle of patience.

Of this garden, many a rose keepeth blossoming. But, From it, without the calamity of the thorn, none plucked a rose.

Hafiz ! of this centre-place of existence, have no hope ; A thousand defects, it hath ; it hath not a single excellence.