غزل شمارهٔ 117

At the time of His face, retirement from the sward, our heart hath: For, like the cypress, foot-binding it is; and like the tulip, stain it hath.

To the bow of any one’s eye-brow, our head descendeth not; For, retirement from the world, the heart of corner-takers hath.

Torment on account of the violet, I have: because it boasteth of His tress Behold thou what conceit in the brain, the black slave of little value hath.

Saunter into the sward; and gaze at the rose’s throne. For the tulip Resembleth the King’s servant, that, in the hand, a cup hath.

In the night of darkness and in the desert, where can one arrive, Unless, in my path, the lamp, the candle of His face hath?

I and the candle of the morning, ‘tis fit if went together: For, we consumed; and no solicitude for us, our idol hath.

Desire for love’s lesson, hath Hafez’s sorrowful heart: For neither desire for the spectacle, nor desire for the garden, the heart hath.