An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 181
From this day on, my hand shall grip the hem of that tall cypress,
who with her swaying stature has torn me up from root and stock.
No need of minstrel or of wine — you, only lift your veil,
for I will set your face's fire a-dancing like the incense-seed.
No face becomes the mirror of the bridal-bower of fortune,
save that one face on which they rub the hoof of the swift steed.
I said: 'The secrets of your grief, whatever they may be, let them stand;
I have no patience past this point — what shall I do, how long, how much?'
Slay me not, that musky gazelle of yours, O hunter of the plain;
have shame before that jet-black eye, and bind it not within the noose.
I am but earth, who cannot even rise up from this door;
from where, then, shall I press a kiss upon that lofty palace's lip?
Take back your heart once more, Hafez, from that dark and musky tress,
for the madman is best kept, in truth, when he is bound in chains.