Ode CXXIX

Endurance, intellect, and peace have from my bosom flown,
Lured by an idol's silver ear-lobes, and its heart of stone.

An image brisk, of piercing looks, with peris' beauty blest,
Of slender shape, of lunar face, in Turk-like tunic drest!

With a fierce glow within me lit--in amorous frenzy lost--
A culinary pot am I, in ebullition tost.

My nature as a shirt's would be, at all times free from smart,
If like yon tunic garb I pressed the wearer to my heart.

At harshness I have ceased to grieve, for none to light can bring
A rose that is apart from thorns, or honey void of sting.

The framework of this mortal form may rot within the mould,
But in my soul a love exists which never shall grow cold.

My heart and faith, my heart and faith--of old they were unharmed,
Till by yon shoulders and yon breast, yon breast and shoulders charmed.

Háfiz, a medicine for thy woe,
A medicine must thou sip,
No other than that lip so sweet,
That lip so sweet, that lip.