An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 81
At break of day the meadow-bird said to the new-blown rose:
'Preen yourself less — in this garden many have bloomed like you.'
The rose laughed out: 'At the truth we take no least offence; and yet
no lover ever spoke a bitter word to his beloved.'
If you covet from that jewelled goblet the ruby wine,
oh, many a pearl you must first bore through with your lashes' tip.
Unto all eternity the scent of love shall reach no nostril
of him who swept not his face across the tavern-door's dust.
Last night in the garden of Iram, when from the gentle air
the hyacinth's tress was tangling in the breath of dawn,
I said: 'O throne of Jamshid, where is your world-revealing cup?'
It sighed: 'Alas, that watchful fortune has fallen asleep.'
The speech of love is not the speech that rises to the tongue;
cupbearer, pour the wine, and cut this idle parley short.
Hafez's tears flung wisdom and patience into the sea;
what could he do? He could not veil the scorch of love's own grief.