poems about love

If you should meet the Loved One as you stray,
O give my letter secretly to her,
Then haste away
And do not tell my name, O Messenger.

O Morning Winds that from the garden blow,
Should you meet one like me forlorn and sad,
On him bestow
The peace and solace I have never had.

O Eyes that weep and weep unsatisfied,
That shed such floods, yet never find relief,
O stem your tide
Lest you should drown the world in seas of grief.

She need not have one anxious doubt of me,

That rogue called Love having left me,
How cold snow feels to me!

Like the buoy that floats in the harbour,
Now high and now dropping low,
Is my heart that love has tortured
When I watch you come and go.

Praised more than can be told
in the swaying pleasure groves:
only the eye is pleasured —
by seeing just a little,
the other catches the whole heart,
and the other
seeing one as another (and being lonely)
calls out.

Though new it seems familiar —
did this heart invite it?
The world changed, and perhaps
painfully awakened this forgotten life.
Shiva, perhaps,
to adorn Uma,
with one glance
dreamed this earth to be their home.

The world must turn to a drop
and disappear

And [a hue] of honey-paleness overspreads the lovely countenance .

I love delicacy, and for me Love has the sun's splendour and beauty .

Love is a secret which cannot be revealed,
But by two hundred curtains it cannot be concealed.

That idol with heart of stone and ear-ornaments of silver
Hath deprived me of fortitude, power, and reason.

For she is an image of piercing looks, delicate mien, in beauty like a houri,
A soft companion, bright as the moon, lovely, and robed in the grace-tunic.

Were my very bones even to putrefy,
The love I have for her could not be forgotten by my soul.

Her bosom and shoulders, her bosom and shoulders, her bosom and shoulders
Have deprived me of my heart and religion, my heart and religion:

Thy cure, thy cure, O HAFIZ!

I.

I have been wont to bear my head on high,
Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien;
Yea, tho' a king should gaze on me, I ween,
I should not at his gaze cast down my eye.

But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly:
When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been,
At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene,
I feel the shudder of humility.

Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue,

With myrtles and roses, tender and fair,
With funeral cypress, and gilding rare,
As though 'twere a coffin my book I'll adorn
And in it my songs to their rest shall be borne.

Could I coffin my love too, deep in the tomb!
On love's grave the fair flower of peace may bloom;
On such grave it blooms, there 'tis culled — but for me
It never will bloom till in earth I be.

And here are the songs which were reckless erst
As the lava streams that from Etna burst;
They broke from my spirit's depths profound