Ode XXIII

Prone at my friend's high gates, my Will its head lays still:

Whate'er my head awaits is ordered by that will.

My friend resembles none; in vain I sought to trace,

In glance of moon or sun, the radiance of that face.

Can morning's breeze make known what grief this heart doth hold,

Which as a bud hath grown, compressed by fold on fold?

Not I first drained the jar where rev'lers pass away:[28]

Heads in this work-yard are nought else than wine-jars' clay.

Meseems thy comb has wreathed those locks which amber yield:

The gale has civet breathed, and amber scents the field.

Flowers of verdant nooks be strewn before thy face:

Let cypresses of brooks bear witness to thy grace!

When dumb grow tongues of men that on such love would dwell,

Why should a tongue-cleft pen by babbling strive to tell?

Thy cheek is in my heart; no more will bliss delay;

Glad omens e'er impart news of a gladder day.

Love's fire has dropped its spark

In Háfiz' heart before:

The wild-grown tulip's mark

Branded of old its core.[29]