Ode CLXXIII

With my heart's blood I wrote to one most dear:

"The earth seems doom-struck if thou are not near.

"My eyes a hundred signs of absence show:

These tears are not their only signs of woe."

I gained no boon from her for labor spent:

"Who tries the tried will in the end repent."

I asked how fared she; the physician spake:

"Afar from her is health; but near her ache."

The East-wind from my Moon removed her veil:

At morn shone forth the Sun from vapors pale.

I said: "They'll mock, if I go round thy lane."

By God! no love escapes the mocker's bane.

Grant Háfiz' prayer:

"One cup, by life so sweet!"

He seeks a goblet

With thy grace replete!