غزل شمارهٔ 115

Plant the tree of friendship, that, to fruit, the heart’s desire bringeth: Up-pluck the bush of enmity, that countless troubles bringeth.

When thou art the guest of the tavern, with profligates be with respect: For, O beloved, if thou be a dreg-drinker, the intoxication, of wine-sickness, this bringeth.

The night of society, reckon plunder. For, after our time The sphere many a revolution maketh; many a night and day bringeth.

Leyla’s litter-keeper, in whose order is the moon’s cradle, O God! into his heart cast that, passing by Majnun, he may cause.

O heart! desire the spring season. If not, every year, this sward A hundred beautiful roses. like the wild rose, and a thousand like the nightingale bringeth.

Since, with Thy tress, my wounded heart hath established a covenant, for God’s sake, Order Thy sweet ruby that to rest, its state, it may bring.

In this garden, Hafez, gray of head, asketh God That, by the marge of the stream, he may sit; and into his embrace, a cypress may bring.