غزل شمارهٔ 444

'Tis a city full of graceful ones ; and, on every side, an idol. O friends ! 'tis love's salutation, if ye make , a bargain.

More fresh than this, the sky's eye seeth not a youth ; In the hand, none beheld more beautiful than this an idol.

Created of soul, who shall have seen a body ? On this skirt, of these dusty ones be not a particle of dust !

The shattered one like me, from before thyself wherefore drivest thou ? For great expectation is mine, of a kiss, or of an embrace.

Know the wine is without alloy ; haste ; the time is opportune ; Another year, who hath hope of a new spring?

In the garden, companions like the tulip and the rose, Each a cup taken to the memory of the face of a friend.

This knot, how may I loose ? This mystery, how may I unfold ? A pain, and a severe pain ; a work, and a difficult work.

In the hand of the tress, of a saucy one, is every thread of Hafiz's hair ; 'Tis difficult to dwell in a land like this.