So but that Turk of Shiraz take My heart within her hand of snow,
Bokhara, ay, and Samarcand On her black mole will I bestow.

Give, cupbearer, the wine that's left; For thou'lt not find in Paradise
The banks of Ruknabád nor yet Musella's rosegarths all a-blow.

Alack, these saucy sweet-sellers, These town perturbing gipsy maids!
They ravish patience from the heart, As Turkmans plunder from the foe.

The beauty of the Friend of love Imperfect independent is;
What need of patch and pencilling And paint have lovely faces, trow?

The tale of wine and minstrel tell Nor after heaven's secrets seek;
For this enigma to resolve None ever knew nor yet shall know.

For that still-waxing loveliness That Joseph had, too well I knew
That Love would cause Zuleikha forth The veil of continence to go.

Thou spak'st me ill; yet I'm content. God pardon thee! Thou spakest well;
For bitter answers well on lips Of sugar-dropping ruby show.

To admonition lend thine ear, O soul; for dearer than the soul
To happy youths the counsels are Which from wise elders' lips do flow.

Songs hast thou made and jewels strung. Come, Hafiz, and recite them well,
So heaven on thy string of pearls The clustered Pleïades may strow.