Ode XLV

O breeze of morn! where is the place which guards my friend from strife?
Where is the abode of that sly Moon who lovers robs of life?

The night is dark, the Happy Vale in front of me I trace.
Where is the fire of Sinäi, where is the meeting place?

Here jointly are the wine-filled cup, the rose, the minstrel; yet
While we lack love, no bliss is here: where can my Loved be met?

Of the Shaikh's cell my heart has tired, and of the convent bare:
Where is my friend, the Christian's child, the vintner's mansion, where?

Háfiz, if o'er the glade of earth
The autumn-blast is borne,
Grieve not, but musing ask thyself:
"Where has the rose no thorn?"