An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 73
There is no eye but shines with the ray of your countenance;
no sight but wears the bounty of the dust before your gate.
Those who gaze upon your face are the truly discerning — yes;
there is no head that does not hold the mystery of your curl.
If my tell-tale tear ran red, what marvel is there in it?
No render of veils but blushes for his own betraying deed.
Lest a single mote should light on the hem from that soft breeze,
there is no path within my sight from which no torrent breaks.
That the dusk of your dark tress be told of in every place,
there is no dawn in which I have not conversed with the wind.
I alone grieve at this frenzied fortune of mine; and yet
there is no soul but grows enriched from the threshold of your lane.
Before the shame of your sweet lip, O wellspring of pure nectar,
there is now no grain of sugar not drowned in water and sweat.
It were not wise that the secret should tumble from the veil;
though in the assembly of the rends there is no tale unknown.
The lion in the wilderness of your love turns to a fox;
alas for this road, where there is no peril that is not there.
The water of my eye, that bears the bounty of your gate's dust,
lies under a hundred debts — there is no gate it does not owe.
Some name and token of my being still remain — they do remain;
else in my frailty there is no faintest trace of me left there.
Save this one point alone — that Hafez is displeased with you —
in your whole being, head to foot, there is no grace that is not there.