An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 117
In the season of your face our heart is done with the meadow,
for, cypress-like, its foot is bound, and tulip-like, it bears a brand.
Our head bows not before the bow of any brow,
for in the recluse's corner there is freedom from the world.
I am vexed at the violet, that it vaunts of his tress;
behold the cheap black thing — what conceit fills its head!
Stroll in the garden and behold, on the rose's throne, the tulip
like the king's boon-fellow, with the goblet in its hand.
In the night of darkness and desert, where could one arrive,
unless the candle of your face bear a lamp along my road?
I and the dawn-candle — fitting it is that we weep together,
for we have burned away, and our idol is done with us.
It befits me, like the cloud of Bahman, to weep upon this garden;
behold the nightingale's nest of joy — a raven squats in it now.
The pained heart of Hafez is set upon the lesson of love,
and cares no more for the spectacle nor longs for the garden.