Tears, tears, wild tears, rend not I pray

Tears, tears, wild tears, rend not I pray
This shining grief-wrought veil of mine!
I would not like old love tales bare
My secret for all to divine.

Patience can make--so peasants say--
Red rubies of the pebble stone;
Ah yes! Ah yes!--and well it may
If heart blood lend the rosy tone.

My rival’s proud presumptuous air
Confuses me--surprises--quite,
How could such a poor needy wretch
Grasp this caprice’s splendid height!

You carry, Sweet, your head too high,
My Cypress proud, my Royal One!
Too short my arm, you say? You fear
’Twill not unto your girdle come?

Why, Sweet, through your love’s alchemy
This cheek of mine is no more old,
And your two sun-bright eyes have power
To turn my poor dust into gold.

Yet beauty without grace of heart,
Howe’er so great its red lipped charm,
Can satisfy not senses fine
Of him who’s wise, nor work him harm.

Oh! soul of mine shouldst tell to her
Of that wild, wayward youth now gone,
Frame words so fine, so cunningly
Not even the wind can bear them on.

When sorrow comes, be firm and calm,
Look up with hope, be not bowed low,
And thank God for the trial sent,
Or else from bad to worse ’twill go.

Be patient, sad, sad heart of mine,
From sorrow joy is sure to come;
The night is transformed into day
And each dawn has a rising sun.

If you should visit Hafiz’ grave,
Unto his night your day bring, Sweet,
He’d burst the bonds of death in twain
And kneel to kiss again your feet.