CXLVI
O thou who hast ravished my heart by thine exquisite grace and thy
shape,
Thou carest for no one, and yet not a soul from thyself can escape.
At times I draw sighs from my heart, and at times, O my life, thy
sharp dart:
Can aught I may say represent all the ills I endure from my heart?
How durst I to rivals commend thy sweet lips by the ruby's tent gemmed,
When words that are vivid in hue by a soul unrefined are contemned?
As strength to thy beauty accrues ev'ry day from the day sped before,
To features consummate as thine, will we liken the night-star no more.
My heart hast thou reft: take my soul! For thine envoy of grief what
pretence?
One perfect in grief as myself with collector as he may dispense.
O Háfiz, in Love's holy bane,
As thy foot has at last made its way,
Lay hold of his skirt with thy hand,
And with all sever ties from to-day.