The head of our purpose cleaves To the Loved One's threshold-sill,
For all that o'er us doth pass Betideth but of her will.

The like of the loveliness Of the Friend I've never seen,
Albeit with moon and sun Her cheek I mirror still.

How shall the East wind loosen The stress of our straitened heart,
That, fold upon fold, like the rosebud, Is twisted up with ill?

I'm not the only swillpot In this sot-burning world:
How many a head in this workshop Is pot-clay for wine to fill!

'Twould seem that thou passest the comb Through thine ambergris-shedding locks,
For the wind wafteth nard and the dust Doth ambergris distil.

The strewage be of thy face Each roseleaf that is in the meads!
The sacrifice be of thy shape Each cypress that stands by the rill!

Since mute is the tongue of speech In the tale of desire for her,
Where, where is the place of the split Tongued, idle-spoken quill?

Thy cheek to my thought hath come: My will I shall sure attain,
Because that on auspice good Fair fortune followeth still.

Afire for desire not now For the first time is Hafiz's heart;
Heartbranded was he from the Prime, Like the tulip that groweth at will.