An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 446
O breeze, you bear the fragrance of that musk-scented tress;
live long as a keepsake, for you carry its scent.
My heart, that holds the jewel of beauty's and love's secret,
one may entrust to your hand — if you will keep it well.
In that winsome form nothing at all can be faulted,
save only this: that you have hot-tempered rivals.
Where, O rose, would your nightingale's song win your favour,
when your ear and mind are given to the idle-babbling birds?
One draught of yours made my head drunk — sweet be your nectar;
from what jar, pray, is this you carry in your flask?
Boast not, O cypress of the stream, of your own wilfulness,
for should you reach her, you'd bow your head for shame.
To boast, like the sun, of the kingdoms of the fair —
this befits you, for you own moon-faced slaves.
The robe of beauty-selling suits you, and you alone,
for like the rose you keep the whole rite of hue and scent.
Seek not from the cloister's corner the jewel of love, Hafez;
set your foot outside, if you have a taste for seeking.