  I dreamt, about the morning hours, That in a field of scented flowers, By Rocknabad’s cool flow, I saw Ferangis go Swift by me like a dream of spring; And I, whose heart was hot to fling Myself before my dear, Stood full of silent fear. And then I dreamt she came to lay Softly her hand in mine and say, ‘Hafiz, you yet shall know How happy is your woe; For what gift can the silent years Offer so precious as these tears, And memory of the ache Your heart had for my sake?’ Then, seeming stirred by pitying thought Of all the joy I vainly sought, You gave your hand to kiss, Saying, ‘Remember this When you and I are grey and old, When all this fiery love is cold, And, honouring lost delight, Keep your soul’s whiteness white.’ I had no power to speak or move; Slowly the image of my love Faded before my eyes Like light from summer skies. I wake and find Ferangis gone, Yet scarce believe I am alone; One minute since my hand Had touched her where I stand. I read of men whom love made mad In antique legends, softly sad As wind is after rain. I weep for Saadi’s pain, And stir the dust that lies above Long shelves of poets crossed in love, To gain from their disgrace Some comfort for my case. I find fit voices for my grief In many a buried poet’s leaf; But, ah! what ancient song Contains a charm so strong That it shall make your heart confess You love me, neither more or less? Which learning, surely I Might be content to die. And yet, when I reflect how fair Those almond eyes and sable hair And gracious body are, I cry, ‘Out of my star Such beauty is;’ I am as one Who dreams of kingdoms till the sun Warns, if he would be fed, To rise and beg his bread. Soft voices whisper in my ears, ‘What girl deserves the grace of tears?’ Courage! the world is wide; Life’s best is to be tried. If this love fail, fresh loves await; The reddest roses blossom late. Have you not passed before Out of love’s curtained door? |
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