In the bigot seeming-holy Knowledge of our state is not;
Whatsoe'er of us he speaketh, Cause for spite or hate is not.

All the wayfarer betideth In the Way is for his weal;
Road-lost whosoever fareth In the pathway straight is not.

What, I wonder, will her cheek play? Lo, a pawn I will advance.
For the toper, on Love's chessboard, " Check " to say or " Mate " is not.

What is yonder roof high-vaulted, Many-figured? Here below,
This enigma known to any, Howso wise or great, is not.

What, o God, is this strange puissance Of disdain, whereby there be
Hidden wounds galore, but licence To complain of Fate is not?

Sure our Vizier hath forgotten God's account; for, sooth to say,
With " For God's Account! " his mandate Signed above the date is not!

" Whoso willeth " , say, " Come hither! " What he willeth let him speak:
Pride of chamberlain or porter's Bluster at this gate is not.

Whatso faileth to Thy favour Of our own shortcoming is:
Else, for any one the garment Of Thy bounty strait is not.

Tavern-door-ward to betake them Is the part of single-hearts;
Entrance in that way for vauntards Self-infatuate is not.

I'm the Magian Elder's servant, For his favour constant is,
Not like that of Sheikh and zealot, Which now is and straight is not.

In high place if Hafiz sit not, 'Tis of his high mind: the true
Lover in the bond of riches And of high estate is not.