Thou whose mouth the tale of sugar Laugheth unto scorn,
One sweet smile vouchsafe a lover Wistful and forlorn.

O pistachio, where, sweet smiling, Breatheth my Belov'd,
What art thou? For God's sake, laugh not Thus thyself to scorn!

E'en the Touba-tree for stature Cannot vie with thee;
Be the subject (lest o'er lofty Wax the talk) forborne!

An with petulance thou use us, Scoffing at our pain,
We are none that mate with mortals Self-conceit upborne.

How shall he the perturbation Of my case conceive
Anydele, whose heart was never Of Love's springes torn?

Bind thy heart not on the lovelings' Constancy, with blood
An thou wilt not have thine eyelids Streaming night and morn.

Brisk Love's mart is: where's that lamp-cheek, On whose face's fire
Soul and heart I may, like rue-seed, Scatter, all love-lorn?

Since thou wilt not lack the glances, Hafiz, of the Turks,
In Khujénd or Khuwarézm Shouldst thou have been born.