غزل شمارهٔ 39

Of the cypress and the pine, what need hath my garden? Our box-tree nurtured in the shade, is less than who?

O beloved youth! What religion hast thou adopted, Wherein our blood is more lawful to thee than mother’s milk?

Since, from afar, thou seest the picture of grief, drink wine: The diagnosis, we have made: certain is the cure.

Forth from the threshold of the Pir of wine-sellers, why draw I my head? In this his head, is fortune; in this his door, tranquility.

Love’s pain is but one tale-no more Wonderful this That from every one whom I hear, the tale is not repeated.

Last night, He gave promise; and, in His head, had the wine: To-day, let us see what He saith; in His head is what.

Shiraz and the water of Ruknabad, and the breeze of pleasant air, Them, contemn not; for they are the lustre of adornment of seven territories of the world.

From the water of life of Khizr, whose place is the Land of Darkness, it is far Up to our water, whose fountain is Allah-u Akbar.

We take not the honor of poverty and of contentment: To the king, speak saying: Daily victuals are destined.

Hafez! how strange, the twig of candy is thy reed, Whose fruit is more heart-pleasing than honey and sugar.