An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 281
O Lord, this laughing fresh-blown rose you gave into my keeping,
I give back to your keeping from the meadow's envious eye.
Though she has grown, by a hundred stages, far from faith's own street,
far be the harm of the wheeling sphere from her soul and frame!
Should you reach the abode of Salma, O breeze of dawn,
I look to you to carry a greeting there from me.
With reverence, unloose the musk-pod of that black tress;
it is the home of precious hearts—throw it not into disarray.
Say: my heart holds faith's own claim upon your down and mole;
keep it honoured within that ambergris-scattering tress.
In a station where they drink to the memory of her lip,
base is that reveller who is still aware of himself.
Honour and wealth cannot be hoarded at the tavern's door;
whoever drinks this water, let him fling his goods to the sea.
To whoever dreads vexation, the grief of her love is not lawful:
our head beneath her foot, or our lip against her mouth.
The verse of Hafez is, every couplet, the ghazal of gnosis;
bravo to his heart-alluring breath and the grace of his speech!