غزل شمارهٔ 14

I said: “O Sultan of lovely ones! show pity to this poor stranger.” He said: “In the desire of his own heart, loseth his way the wretched stranger.”

To Him, I said: “Pass awhile with me.” He replied: “Hold me excused.” A home nurtured one, what care beareth he for such griefs of the poor stranger?

To the gently nurtured one, asleep on the royal ermine, what grief, If, should make the couch of thorn; and, the pillow of the hard stone, the poor stranger.

O thou in the chain of whose tress, are the souls of so many lovers, Happily, fell that musky mole, on thy colored cheek, so strange.

In the color of the moon-like face, appeareth the reflection of wine: Like the leaf of the Arghavan on the surface of the wild red rose, strange

Strangely hath fallen that ant-line around thy face: Yet, in the picture gallery the musky line is not strange.

I said: “O thou tress of night-hue, the evening of the stranger! “In the morning time, beware, if his need bewail this stranger.”

He said: “Hafez!, friends are in the stage of astonishment:” “Far it is not, if shattered and wretched sitteth the stranger.”