All the bulbul's thought his lover How the rose may be is;
But her sole concern to baffle Lovers at her gree is.

Every thing is not heart-charming, That the lover slayeth;
Whoso tendereth his servant, Lord and master he is.

'Tis no wonder, — if the potsherd Prime it in the market, —
That in blood the ruby's bosom Whelmed, as with a sea, is.

Only from the rose's favour Learned the bulbul singing;
Hence his throat with all this music Filled and warbling glee is

God preserve that gone-a-travel Fair, with whom an hundred
Caravans of hearts go faring, Wheresoever she is!

Have a care, o thou that passest Through the Loved One's alley;
Of its wall a-pieces broken Else the head of thee is.

Though the practice of salvation Fair, o heart, befall thee,
Love forsake not, for its quarter Dear and sweet to see is.

Leave the spirit's lusts and longings And for thee, ne'er doubt it,
To the precinct of her presence Plain the path and free is.

Since the Soufi, when wine-merry Only, wried his skull-cap,
With two goblets more, his turban Fallen to his knee is.

Hafiz' heart, that to thy presence Now is grown accustomed,
Vex thou not, for it the rearling Of thy grace and gree is.