If in thy canon the shedding The blood of the lover is right,
Good to us also seemeth That which is good in thy sight.

The black of thy tress declareth Of Him who appointed the dark
And He who hath sundered the morning Is shown of thy face's white.

From mine eyes to my lap a river Of tears, so deep that there
No sailor to swim availeth, Is running fore'er at height.

Thy lips, like the water of Khizr, The food of the soul contain
And in them the savour of wine is For earthly appetite.

From the grip of the noose of thy tresses Deliverance findeth none;
None 'scapeth the bow of thine eyebrow And shaft of thine eye of light.

Seek not at our hand repentance And grace and good works. Who looks
To lovers and sots and madmen For virtue and life contrite?

For an hundred of lovers' devices, Thy ruby lip giveth no kiss;
Nor its wish can my heart of it compass, A thousand implorings despite.

Be ever the prayer for thy welfare The usance of Hafiz's tongue,
What while, in succession, there follow Each other the day and the night!