The image of thy face to us In every road way-mate is;
The bond of this our soul attent The scent of thy tress-plait is.

In answer to the cavillers, Who Love forbid, the beauty
Of thy fair face an argument, That suff'reth no debate, is.

Hark, how the apple of her chin Declareth, — Many a Joseph
— Of Egypt fallen in our pit, Attracted by our bait, is. —

If thy long tresses to attain To us be unvouchsaféd,
The fault but that of our short hand And of our sorry fate is.

Say unto him who keeps the door Of that thy privy-chamber,
— Lo, such an one of those that haunt The threshold of our gate is:

— Though in appearance from the sight Of us he be excluded,
— He ever present to the eye Of this our mind sedate is.

— If Hafiz at the portal knock On beggar-fashion, open;
— For on our moonface, many a year, He longingly await is. —