Thy face, none hath seen; and a thousand watchers are Thine, Still in the rosebud, Thine many a nightingale is.
Not so strange is it if to Thy street came I, since in this country many a stranger is.
In love, the cloister and the tavern are not different: Wherever, they are, the ray of the true Beloved’s face is.
There, where they give splendor to the work of the cloister, The bell of the Christian monk’s cloister associated with the name of the cross is.
Lover, who became, at whose state the true Beloved gazed not? O Sir! there is no pain. Otherwise, the Physician is.
In short, all this lament of Hafez is not in vain: Both a strange story and a wonderful tale, it is.
