An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 401
When I become the dust of her road, she shakes her skirt of me;
and if I plead 'Turn your heart to me,' she turns her face away.
Like the rose she shows her tinted face to every passer-by;
and if I beg 'Veil it once more,' she veils it — but from me.
I told my eye: at last, drink deep of one glance of her;
it said: would you have it drive a whole stream of blood from me?
She thirsts for my blood, I for her lip — and who shall say
if I shall win my wish of her, or she her redress of me.
If, like Farhad, my soul should climb out in bitterness — no matter;
many a sweet tale of me will still be left to tell.
If I die, candle-like, before her, she laughs at my grief;
and if I take offence, her delicate mind takes offence at me.
Friends, I have given up my soul for her small mouth — behold
how, for the merest trifle, she holds herself aloof from me.
Be patient, Hafez — for if grief's lesson runs on so,
in every corner love will read out some fable of me.