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.