An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 436
Had that ambergris-lined beauty penned one letter our way,
the sphere had never folded up the scroll of our being.
Though parting bears at last the fruit of union,
would that the world's husbandman had sown not this seed!
Forgiveness is ready coin for the one who owns, down here,
a friend fair as a houri, a dwelling like paradise.
On the tavern-bench of love no luxury can be had;
since gold is no pillow, we make do with a brick.
Trade not, for Iram's garden and Shaddad's pride,
one flask of wine, a lip's sweet nectar, and the wine-jar's lip.
How long, wise heart, this grief for the base, mean world?
A pity in beauty — that the fair should love the foul.
The cloak's defilement is this world's own ruin;
where is a wayfarer, a man of heart, of pure-bred soul?
Why did Hafez let slip your tress's tip from his hand?
So fate decreed — what could you do, that you held it not?