Ode LXIII

My heart has of the world grown weary and all that it can lend:

The shrine of my affection holds no Being but my friend.

If e'er for me thy love's sweet garden a fragrant breath exhale,

My heart, expansive in its joy, shall bud-like burst its veil.

Should I upon love's path advise thee, when now a fool I've grown,

'Twould be the story of the fool, the pitcher, and the stone.

Go! say to the secluded zealot: "Withhold thy blame; for know,

I find the arch of the Mihráb[37] but in an eyebrow's bow."

Between the Ka'bah and the wine-house, no difference I see:

Whate'er the spot my glance surveys, there equally is He.

'Tis not for beard, hair, eyebrow only, Kalandarism should care:

The Kalandar computes the Path by adding hair to hair.[38]

The Kalandar who gives a hair's head,

An easy path doth tread:

The Kalandar of genuine stamp,

As Háfiz gives his head.