Our garden in no need Of cypress and of pine is;
For less than none of worth Yon shade-reared box of mine is?

O loveling fair, what faith Hast taken, by whose canons
Our blood than mother's milk More lawful in thine eyne is?

Whenas chagrin thou seest Loom afar off, for wine call:
Proof have we made and sure The cure for all repine is.

Why should I lift my head From off the Magians' threshold,
Since of felicity And ease this door the shrine is?

Nought but the broken heart In this our Path they purchase;
The self-sellers' bazaar In quite another line is.

Yesterday, wine in head, She promised me enjoyment.
What will she say to day, When in her head no wine is?

The tale of Love's chagrin All one is; yet, o wonder!
Repeated by no man I've heard The thing, in fine, is.

Come, for, in severance, Even as the faster's hearing
On " Allah Akber! " , bent This hopeful eye of mine is.

Rail not at Shiraz town, Its pleasant streams and breezes,
For on the sev'n climes' cheek This country as the shine is.

'Twixt Khizr's fount, that wells In darkness, great's the diff'rence
And ours, whose source the hill, That bears the Name Divine, is.

We will not cast away Content and poortith's lustre:
Provision (tell the king) Forewrit of Fate benign is.

Since sweeter are its fruits Than honey and than sugar,
What a rare sugarcane, Hafiz, this reed of thine is!