A thousand hearts her tresses Bind with a single hair
And block the way on thousands Who succour fain would bear.

So all the soul may render, In hope of her sweet scent,
Musk-pods she op'neth, shutting Hope's door, when they draw near.

I am become distracted, Because her new-moon brows
And beauty now discovers, Now veils her face my fair.

The skinker in the goblet Pours many-coloured wine:
See, in the gourd he formeth How many pictures rare!

What fault, Lord, hath the flagon Done that the grapeblood fast
Sticketh, for all its gurgling, Within its gullet e'er?

What measure plays the minstrel That, in mid dance, upon
Th'ecstatics shuts the portal Of speech with its sweet air?

The sage who'th seen the juggle Of yonder trickster-sphere,
Foldeth his rug and shutteth The door on the affair.

He who, Love's rites unpractised, Doth, Hafiz, union seek
Would the heart's pilgrim-garment, Without ablution, wear.