غزل شمارهٔ 181

After this, (together are) my hand and the skirt of that lofty cypress (the Prince of Khujand), Who, with a moving stature, plucked me up from root and branch (of the household).

Need of the minstrel and of wine is none. Lift thou the veil That the fire of thy (resplendent) face may bring me, like rue, to dancing.

No face becometh the mirror of fortune's (glorious) face, Save that face, which they rub on the hoof of the bay steed (of the beloved).

I said : " The secret of thy grief, whatever it is, say be :" More than this, no patience have I. What shall I do ? Till when, how long (shall I exercise patience)?

O hunter (death) ! slay not that musky deer (the beloved) : Have shame of that dark (piteous) eye ; and, in the noose, bind him not.

I, dusty, who, from this door (of separation from the Beloved), cannot rise, How may I plant a kiss on the lip of that lofty palace ?

Hafiz ! Take not again the heart from that musky tress, For the reason that the distraught one (is) verily best when he is in bonds.