Whoe'er the beauty of the down On the Friend's cheek in sight hath
The goal of vision and of wit, Certes, attained the wight hath.

Pen-like, upon her royal writ The head of our obeisance
We've laid, albeit she with sword To take it off the right hath.

To thine enjoyment he alone Findeth accéss, each moment
Who, candle-like, another head, For that thy sword to smite, hath.

Unto the kissing of thy foot That man alone attaineth
Who, like the threshold, at thy door His head still day and night hath.

One day thy watcher at my breast Hath launched an arrow, seeing
The might of grief for thee my heart Defenceless made outright hath.

Of barren pietism sick Am I: bring wine unmingled;
For lo! its scent the power to hold My brain still fresh and bright hath.

If nought but this wine profit thee, Is't not enough, a moment,
That it from reason's fasheries To set thee free the might hath?

He, who ne'er yet without the door Of piety foot planted,
Now, to the winehouse-quarter bound, Himself for travel dight hath.

The brand of passion to the dust. Will bear heart-broken Hafiz,
Which on his liver, wellaway! Wild tulip-like, the wight hath.