What kindness 'twas that, all at once, The droppings of thy quill
Our dues of service have recalled Unto thy gracious will!

Greeting to me with the pen's point Thou sendest: may thy writ
This workshop of vicissitudes (God grant!) for ever fill!

I say not, 'twas in error thou Rememb'redst heart-lorn me;
For error, reason reckoneth, There is not in thy quill.

Scorn thou me not, if but in thanks For this especial grace,
That constant Fortune holdeth thee In fame and honour still.

Come, with thy tress-tip so I may A compact make, that ne'er,
Although it perish, from thy feet My head uplift I will.

Thy heart will only then become Aware of this our case,
When tulips blossom from their dust Whom grief for thee did kill.

To every rose the East wind tells The story of thy tress:
How won the talebearer to thee, Despite the warder's skill?

Vouchsafe to succour with a draught Thy lovers' thirsting souls,
Since They the cup of Jem for thee Brim up with Khizr's rill.

My heart abideth at thy door: I prithee, hold it dear,
Seeing that God hath holden thee Secure from pain and ill.

The world's a place of snares and yet Thou farest fast: have heed
Lest in the road of nothingness The Fates thy dust should spill

Fair fall thy days, o Jesus-breathed East wind; for with new life
Poor Hafiz' sorrow-smitten soul Thy fragrant breathings thrill.