An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 411
Your musk-rubbing tress lends the violet its envious twist;
your heart-unfolding laughter rends the rosebud's veil.
O my sweet-scented rose, do not consume your nightingale,
who, out of pure sincerity, prays for you all the night.
I, who would have grown weary of the very breath of angels,
endure a whole world's chatter and idle talk — for your sake.
Behold love's fortune: how, out of poverty and pride,
your beggar breaks off the corner of sovereignty's own crown.
The abstinent's frock and the wine-cup, though they ill-befit each other,
all these designs I trace only to win your pleasure.
The tumult of your love's wine leaves not my head that hour
when this desire-crazed head becomes the dust of your door.
The royal dais of my eye is the seat of your fancy;
it is a place of prayer, my king — without you may it never lie empty.
Your cheek is a fair meadow — the more, when in beauty's spring
Hafez, your song-singing bird, grows sweet of word.