غزل شمارهٔ 3

If that Bold One of Shiraz gain our heart, For His dark mole, I will give Samarkand and Bukhara.

Said! give the wine remaining; for, in Paradise, thou wilt not have The bank of the water of the Ruknabad nor the rose of the garden of Musalla.

Alas! These saucy dainty ones sweet of work, the torment of the city, Take patience from the heart even as the men of Turkistan the tray of plunder.

The beauty of the Beloved is in no need of our imperfect love: Of lustre, and color, and mole and tricked line, what need hath the lovely face?

By reason of that beauty, daily increasing that Yusof had, I know That Love for Him would bring Zulaikha forth from the screen of chastity.

Thou spakest ill of me; and I am happy. God Most High forgive thee thou spakest well: The bitter reply suiteth the ruby lip, sugar-eating.

O Soul! Hear the counsel, for, dearer than the soul, Hold happy youths the counsel of the wise old man.

The tale of minstrel and of wine utter; little seek the mystery of time; For this mystery, none solved by skill; and shall not solve.

Thou utteredest a ghazal; and threadedest pearls. Hafez! come and sweetly sing That, on thy verse, the sky may scatter the cluster of the Pleiades.