Ode CXLVI

O thou who hast ravished my heart by thine exquisite grace and thy

shape,

Thou carest for no one, and yet not a soul from thyself can escape.

At times I draw sighs from my heart, and at times, O my life, thy

sharp dart:

Can aught I may say represent all the ills I endure from my heart?

How durst I to rivals commend thy sweet lips by the ruby's tent gemmed,

When words that are vivid in hue by a soul unrefined are contemned?

As strength to thy beauty accrues ev'ry day from the day sped before,

To features consummate as thine, will we liken the night-star no more.

My heart hast thou reft: take my soul! For thine envoy of grief what

pretence?

One perfect in grief as myself with collector as he may dispense.

O Háfiz, in Love's holy bane,

As thy foot has at last made its way,

Lay hold of his skirt with thy hand,

And with all sever ties from to-day.