An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 112
He who gave your cheek the hue of rose and eglantine
can give me too, poor wretch, my patience and my peace.
And he who taught your tress the ways of tyranny
can grant me, in his mercy, redress for all my grief.
That very day I cut off hope of Farhad,
when he yielded his mad heart's rein to the sweet lip.
If there be no hoard of gold, the nook of content remains;
He who gave that to kings gave this to beggars.
The world is a fair bride in outward form; and yet
whoever wed her paid his own life as her dower.
Henceforth: my hand, the cypress-hem, and the streamside —
above all now, when the breeze brings word of spring.
In the fist of the age's grief Hafez's heart turned to blood,
for parting from your face, O master Qavam ad-Din — alas!