غزل شمارهٔ 322

(O true Beloved !) on the workshop of the eye, the form of Thy face, I drew : An idol in Thy form, not I saw ; not I heard.

Although in search of Thee, equal in rein (speed) with the (swift) north breeze I am Not (even) the dust of the (swiftly) moving cypress of Thy stature, I reached.

Hope in the (dark) night of Thy (dark) tress for the bright day of life, I established not : From the heart's desire, desire for Thy mouth's round form, I severed,

From desire for Thy sweet fountain, what drops (tears they were) that I scattered ; From Thy ruby (lip) wine-selling, what graces I purchased.

On my wounded heart, what arrows of glances, Thou loosedest : At the head of Thy street, what loads of grief I endured.

O breeze of the morning ! from the (true) Beloved's street, a little dust bring; For, from that moist land, the perfume of the blood of the wounded heart I perceived.

The sin (fault) of Thy dark eye, and of Thy heart-alluring neck, it was, That, like the wild deer, from man I fled.

Over my head, from His street, a (fragrant) breeze like the (perfumed) rose-bud passed, For (obtaining) the perfume of which, the screen over my poor heart, I rent.

The oath by the dust of Thy foot ; and by the light of the eye of Hafiz, (I swear) that, without Thy face, No splendour from the lamp of the eye, I saw.