My heart of thy lip desire fore'er hath:
What wish of thy lip my heart, o rare! hath!

The draught of desire and the wine of love
My soul in the heart's cup all soe'er hath

The madman, who's bound with the tress of the Friend,
His rest-place still in calamity's snare hath.

So hearts she may capture at will, she o'er
The roses the violet's net [of hair] hath

Lo, how were it seemly that I should ask
What name or repute our witching fair hath?

Nay, how shall one sit with the Friend in peace,
Of gentle or simple who thought or care hath?

O happy, thrice happy the mortal who
The Friend to comrade all-when and where hath!

How goodly, Hafiz, a gathering-tide
That perfect pleasance's gear and ware hath!