Prone at my friend's high gates, my Will its head lays still:
Whate'er my head awaits is ordered by that will.
My friend resembles none; in vain I sought to trace,
In glance of moon or sun, the radiance of that face.
Can morning's breeze make known what grief this heart doth hold,
Which as a bud hath grown, compressed by fold on fold?
Not I first drained the jar where rev'lers pass away:[28]
Heads in this work-yard are nought else than wine-jars' clay.
Meseems thy comb has wreathed those locks which amber yield:
The gale has civet breathed, and amber scents the field.
Flowers of verdant nooks be strewn before thy face:
Let cypresses of brooks bear witness to thy grace!
When dumb grow tongues of men that on such love would dwell,
Why should a tongue-cleft pen by babbling strive to tell?
Thy cheek is in my heart; no more will bliss delay;
Glad omens e'er impart news of a gladder day.
Love's fire has dropped its spark
In Háfiz' heart before:
The wild-grown tulip's mark
Branded of old its core.[29]