Place, save thy sill, for me beneath The firmament is not;
Except this doorway, for my head Shelter or tent is not.

If the foe draw the sword on us, The shield away we cast,
Since weapon in our hand, except Sighs and lament, is not.

Why from the vintner's quarter turn My face, since better path
Or way in all the world than this, For my intent, is not?

Into the harvest of my life If Time cast fire, say " Burn; "
For in mine eyes the whole thereof Worth one grass-bent is not.

Thrall to yon wanton straight-shaped maid's Narcissus-eye am I,
Wherein regard for man, for wine Of self-content, is not.

Since snares and toils, on every side, Spread in the path I see,
Save by thy tress's shade, to me Asylum lent is not.

Go with drawn bridle-rein, o queen Of beauty's realm; for end
Of road there's not where one who cries For solacement is not.

Ensue not after cruelty And do what else thou wilt;
For otherwhat than this by sin In our Law meant is not.

The eagle of oppression's spread His wings o'er all the land;
Therein recluse's bow or shaft Of his lament is not.

The treasure of poor Hafiz' heart Give not to tress or mole;
For every blackmoor for such trust, Sure, competent is not.