غزل شمارهٔ 394

O Thou, whose face, moon in appearance, (is) the fresh spring of beauty; Whose mole and down (are), the centre of grace, and the circle of beauty !

Hidden in Thy eye full of intoxication the fascination of sorcery ; Revealed on Thy restless (floating) tress, the (calm) rest of beauty.

Not a moon shone like Thee from the mansion of goodness ; Not a cypress arose like Thy stature from the stream of beauty.

By Thy darkish beauty, joyous became the age of heart-ravishingness; By Thy grace, expanded became the season of beauty.

From the snare of Thy tress, and the grain of Thy mole, in the world, Not a bird of the heart remaineth, not become the prey of beauty.

Ever, with grace, from the midst of life nature's nurse, Thee, cherisheth with care in the bosom of beauty.

Fresh and fresh is the (dark) violet (hair) about Thy lip, for that reason, That it keepeth drinking the water of life from the fountain- source of beauty.

Hafiz severed desire when he seeth Thy equal ; There is none save Thy face in the land of beauty.