غزل شمارهٔ 127

The luminosity of Thy face, the moon halt not: In comparison with Thee, the glory of grass, the rose hath not.

The corner of Thy eye-brow is my soul’s dwelling: More happy than this corner, the king hath not.

With Thy face, my heart’s smoke-let us see-what it will do: Thou knowest the mirror that power of the sigh, it hath not.

Behold the boldness of the narcissus, that blossometh before thee: Manners, one rent of eye hath not.

I have seen that eye of black heart that Thou hast, A glance towards any friend. it hath not.

O disciple of the tavern! give me the heavy reward: The joy of a shaikh, that the cloister hath not.

Devour thy blood and sit silent. For that tender heart, The power of, the complaint of the justice-seeker, hath not.

Say: “Go; and wash thy sleeve in liver-blood: “Whoever, a path, in this threshold, hath not.”

Not I alone, drew the length of Thy tress: Who is there, who, the stain of this black tress, hath not.

If Hafez worshipped Thee, censure not: O idol The infidel to love, crime hath not.