Ode CXXXV

I tried my fortune in this city lorn:

From out its whirlpool must my pack be borne.

I gnaw my hand, and, heaving sighs of ire,

I light in my rent frame the rose's fire.

Sweet sang the bulbul at the close of day,

The rose attentive on her leafy spray:

"O heart! be joyful, for thy ruthless Love

Sits down ill-temper'd at the sphere above.

"To make the false, harsh world thyself pass o'er,

Ne'er promise falsely and be harsh no more.

"If beat misfortune's waves upon heaven's roof,

Devout men's fate and gear bide ocean-proof.

"Háfiz, if lasting

Were enjoyment's day,

Jem's throne would never

Have been swept away."