If the gracious girl I worship would but take my heart in hand,

I would give her for her beauty Ispahan and Samarcand.

But this lass, the very fairest trouble of our tranquil town,

Plucks all patience from my bosom, lifts my hopes to laugh them down.

She has slandered me, so be it; I forgive her, speaking sooth,

For the harshest words fall softly from the scarlet lips of youth;

Yet I dare not call her cruel, though she does me grievous wrong,

For what lovely face is flattered by the proudest poet’s song?

Fill, then, friend, while wine remaineth, for in Paradise, dear lad,

We shall sigh for Mosellay and weep the waves of Rocknabad.

Speak of wine and song and women; cease, I pray, to seek in vain,

What that mystery most mystic called to-morrow may contain.

String thy pearls and sing them, Hafiz, for from heaven’s golden bars

God has shed upon thy verses all the sweetness of the stars.