Short Poems

High heart, O Hafiz! though not thine
Fine gold and silver ore;
More worth to thee the gift of song,
And the clear insight more.

I have no hoarded treasure,
Yet have I rich content;
The first from Allah to the Shah,
The last to Hafiz went.

Fit for the Pleiads' azure chord
The songs I sung, the pearls I bored.

Out of the East, and out of the West, no man understands me;
Oh, the happier I, who confide to none but the wind!
This morning heard I how the lyre of the stars resounded,
“Sweeter tones have we heard from Hafiz!”

Take my heart in thy hand, O beautiful boy of Schiraz!
I would give for the mole on thy cheek Samarcand and Buchara!

What lovelier forms things wear,
Now that the Shah comes back!

I am: what I am
My dust will be again.

To be wise the dull brain so earnestly throbs,
Bring bands of wine for the stupid head.

I will be drunk and down with wine;
Treasures we find in a ruined house.

There resides in the grieving
A poison to kill;
Beware to go near them
'Tis pestilent still.