Yon friend, by whom our dwelling A fay's abiding-place was,
In whom, like Peris, nothing, From head to foot, of base was;

That sage of me belovéd, That moon in whom united
Good breeding, ay, and insight With every lovesome grace was;

The baleful planets tore her From me: how could I hinder?
The author of the evil The moon's revolving race was.

“Here,” quoth my heart, “I'll sojourn, In hope of her.” Poor dullard!
It knew not that its Loved One Departing hence apace was.

The veil from my heart's secret Not only hath been rended:
Since Time first was, its usance Still veil to rend from face was.

Sweet was the water's margent With rose and green. Woe worth it
That yonder current treasure Here but in fleeting case was!

Sweet was the time and goodly We spent with her: all elsewhat
But ignorance and folly, Unworthy of the chase, was.

For jealousy the bulbul Himself slew that the rosebud,
At dawn, herself unveiling, In the East Wind's embrace, was.

Hold her excused for going, O heart; for thou'rt a beggar
And she in beauty's kingdom Heir to the highest place was.

Each treasure of fair fortune, That God hath given Hafiz,
Still to the evening portion And dawntide-prayer to trace was.