غزل شمارهٔ 81

At dawn, the bird of the sward spake to the rose: “Display less disdain; for, in this garden many a one like thee hath blossomed.”

The rose laughed saying: “We grieve not at the truth; but “No lover spoke a harsh word to the beloved.”

If thou desire ruby wine from that begemmed cup, O many the pearl that it is necessary for thee to pierce with the point of thy eyelash.

To eternity without end, the perfume of love reacheth not the perfume place of him Who, with his face, swept not the dust of the door of the tavern.

Last night, in the Paradise, when from the bounty of the air, The tress of the hyacinth was disturbed by the morning breeze,

I said: “O throne of Jamshid! thy cup world-displaying, where?” It said: “Alas! wakeful fortune slept.”

Not that which cometh to the tongue is the talk of love: O Saki! give wine; make short this uttering and hearing.

Into the sea, the tear of Hafez hath cast wisdom and patience: What shall he do? The consuming of love’s grief, he cannot conceal.