If, in this way, heart-ravishingness, lovely ones make, In the faith of Zaheds, breaches, they will make.
Wherever that branch of the narcissus blossometh, Its narcissus-holder, their own eye, those of rose-cheek make.
O youth, cypress of stature! Strike the bail, Before that time when, of thy stature, the polo they make.
Over their own head, lovers have no command: Whatever be Thy order, that they make.
In my eye, less than a drop are Those tales that of deluge, they make.
When our beloved beginneth sama, Hand waving, the holy ones of the ninth Heaven make.
Immersed in blood became the pupil of my eye, This tyranny against man, where do they make?
O heart, careless of mystery! Forth from grief, come happy: In the crucible of separation, pleasant ease they make.
Hafez! Draw not forth thy head from the midnight sigh, So that, gleaming like the morning, the mirror they may make.
