Ode CXXIX

Endurance, intellect, and peace have from my bosom flown,

Lured by an idol's silver ear-lobes, and its heart of stone.

An image brisk, of piercing looks, with peris' beauty blest,

Of slender shape, of lunar face, in Turk-like tunic drest!

With a fierce glow within me lit--in amorous frenzy lost--

A culinary pot am I, in ebullition tost.

My nature as a shirt's would be, at all times free from smart,

If like yon tunic garb I pressed the wearer to my heart.

At harshness I have ceased to grieve, for none to light can bring

A rose that is apart from thorns, or honey void of sting.

The framework of this mortal form may rot within the mould,

But in my soul a love exists which never shall grow cold.

My heart and faith, my heart and faith--of old they were unharmed,

Till by yon shoulders and yon breast, yon breast and shoulders charmed.

Háfiz, a medicine for thy woe,

A medicine must thou sip,

No other than that lip so sweet,

That lip so sweet, that lip.