With my heart's blood I wrote to one most dear:
"The earth seems doom-struck if thou are not near.
"My eyes a hundred signs of absence show:
These tears are not their only signs of woe."
I gained no boon from her for labor spent:
"Who tries the tried will in the end repent."
I asked how fared she; the physician spake:
"Afar from her is health; but near her ache."
The East-wind from my Moon removed her veil:
At morn shone forth the Sun from vapors pale.
I said: "They'll mock, if I go round thy lane."
By God! no love escapes the mocker's bane.
Grant Háfiz' prayer:
"One cup, by life so sweet!"
He seeks a goblet
With thy grace replete!