In her face's time no lover Inclination for the mead hath;
Foot-bound is he like the cypress, Like the tulip, heart a-bleed hath.

This our heart on no wise boweth To the bow of any's eyebrow;
For the heart of the recluses Of the world no manner need hath.

Irketh me the violet's boasting Of its likeness to her tresses;
See what guile that good-for-nothing Blackmoor in its heart a-seed hath!

Dark the night and wild the waste is: Whither can I win, excepting
Lamp in hand the Loved One's visage, Me upon my way to lead, hath?

With the candle of the morning, Well to weep it me behoveth;
For we burn and she, our idol, Of our case no manner heed hath.

Walk the meadows and the rose's Throne consider; note the tulip;
Like the Sultan's cup-companion, Goblet still in hand the weed hath.

Like the January rain-clouds, Needs must I beweep this meadow:
In the bulbul's nest of joyance, See, the filthy crow its breed hath.

By thy face's light, thy tress-tip All night long the heart waylayeth;
What a bold-faced thief, that nightly In its hand a lamp, indeed, hath!

Lo, the anguished heart of Hafiz Longing for Love's lore possesseth;
So no mind it to the garden Or to pleasance in the mead hath.