By thy sword thy wretched lover's Slaughter foreassigned is not;
Else in thy bewitching glances Shortcoming to find is not.

Lord, I wonder of what essence Is the mirror of thy charms
That to move it in my sighing Power of any kind is not.

Madman that I am, thy tresses Since I loosed have, aught for me
Fitter than the fetters, madmen Wherewithal they bind, is not.

Aught more graceful than thy stature Groweth not in beauty's mead;
Fairer than thy face's limning Pictured of the mind is not.

Otherwhat my nightly practice Than the cricket's wailing note,—
So once more I may thy tress-tip Reach, like the East wind,—is not.

In amazement, at the winehouse Door I lifted up my head,
For that elder in the cloister Unto thee inclined is not

So from thee, o fire of sev'rance, Have I suffered, candle-like,
That resource, save self-destruction, Left for me behind is not.

Hafiz' suff'ring, in thine absence, As a “Verse of torment” is;
Need whereto of exposition, Sure, for all mankind is not.