The rose, without the Friend's bright face, can give no sweet delight;
without the wine, the very spring can give no sweet delight.
The meadow's rim, the circling walk about the garden close,
without a tulip-cheek to see, can give no sweet delight.
The cypress swaying in its dance, the rose in her full glory,
without the nightingale's clear voice, can give no sweet delight.
Beside a sugar-lipped beloved with a body like the rose,
without a kiss, without embrace, there is no sweet delight.
Whatever image reason's hand may frame and fix in place,
save the beloved's living form, can give no sweet delight.
The soul, O Hafez, is but paltry coin, of little worth —
too poor a gift to scatter down before that radiant face.
