An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 443
If, like the cypress, you stroll one breath to a rose-plot,
envy of your face gives every rose its thorn.
From your tress's unbelief, each ring — and a riot;
from your eye's enchantment, each nook — and a malady.
Sleep not, like my fortune, O drunken eye of the Friend,
for at your every side pursues the sigh of the wakeful.
I scatter my soul's coin as tribute on your road's dust, though
the ready coin of the soul holds no worth with you.
O heart, boast not forever of the heart-binders' tress;
when you turn dark of counsel, when will any door open?
My life is gone, and this work came not to a head one hour;
my heart was seized, and you knew no grief of my captivity.
Like the point I told her: 'Come to the circle's centre';
laughing she said: 'O Hafez, what compass-work is this!'