غزل شمارهٔ 443

If, like the (lofty) cypress, a moment thou move in a rose-garden, In envy of thy face, every rose suffereth a thorn.

On account of the infidelity of thy tress, (together are) every assembly and a great tumult ; On account of the sorcery of thy eye, (together are) every corner and a sick one.

O intoxicated eye of the beloved ! to sleep, like my fortune, go not; For, in pursuit, from every direction, is the sigh of a wakeful one.

The scattering of Thy Path's dust is my soul's cash, although On Thy part the soul's cash hath not (even) a little value.

O heart ! ever, a (malignant) opinion of the tress of heart-enslavers, express not ; When malignant of opinion thou becomest, how openeth to thee a work ?

(Separate from the body) went my head ; and, awhile, this work ended not; My heart caught (grief of love) ; and Thine, was no grief for a captive.

To him, I said : " Like the (centre-) point enter into the midst of the circle (of desirous ones) ; " With laughter, he spake, saying : " Hafiz ! in what compass, art thou ? "