O nightingale! bewail if, the desire of being a lover with me, thine is. For, we two are, weeping lovers; and our work, weeping is.
In that land where bloweth the fragrant breeze from the Beloved’s tress, For boasting of the musk-pods of Tatar, what room is.
Bring the wine, wherewith we may becolour the garment of hypocrisy; For, we are intoxicated with the cup of pride; and the name of sensibleness is.
To devise the fancy for Thy tress, is not the work of immature ones: To go beneath the chain, the way of a bold one is.
Wherefrom love ariseth, is a hidden subtlety, Whose name neither the ruby lip, nor the auburn hair is.
The person’s beauty is not the eye, nor the tress, nor the cheek, nor the mole; In this matter many a thousand subtlety, heart-possessing is.
For half a barleycorn Kalandars of the Path purchase not, The satin coat of that one who void of skill is.
To Thy threshold, one can reach only with difficulty. Yes: With difficulty, the ascent to the sky of joyousness is.
In the morning, in a dream, I beheld the glance of union with Him: Oh excellent! when the stage of sleeping better than the waking is.
Hafez! vex not His heart with weeping, and conclude: For, in little injuring, everlasting safety is.
