غزل شمارهٔ 411

Torment (of envy) to the violet, giveth the musk-exhaling tress- of thine; The fold of the rose-bud, rendeth the heart-alluring laughter of thine.

O my rose, sweet of perfume (the beloved) ! thy bulbul (thy lover, in separation), consume not; For, night, all night, with the essence of sincerity, it maketh -prayer for (the welfare) of thine.

I who, with the breathing (murmuring) of angels used to be vexed (so delicate was my nature) , (Now) the disputation of a whole world (high and low), I endure for the sake of Thee.

Love's fortune behold, how, for the desire of pomp and glory, The corner of the crown of sovereignty aslant placeth, the beggar of Thine.

Though not fitted (matched) together are the khirka of austerity, and the cup of wine, All this picture, I paint (trick I play) for the sake of the will of Thine.

Goeth from my head, wine's clamouring and love's consuming at that moment, When this head full of passion becometh the dust of the door of the abode of Thine.

My eye's king-seat is the resting-place of Thy image ; A place of prayer it is. O my sovereign, without thee, be not the place of Thine!

A pleasant sward is Thy cheek, especially when in the spring of beauty, Hafiz, sweet of speech, became the bird, song-singing,' of Thine,