LXIII
My heart has of the world grown weary and all that it can lend:
The shrine of my affection holds no Being but my friend.
If e'er for me thy love's sweet garden a fragrant breath exhale,
My heart, expansive in its joy, shall bud-like burst its veil.
Should I upon love's path advise thee, when now a fool I've grown,
'Twould be the story of the fool, the pitcher, and the stone.
Go! say to the secluded zealot: "Withhold thy blame; for know,
I find the arch of the Mihráb[37] but in an eyebrow's bow."
Between the Ka'bah and the wine-house, no difference I see:
Whate'er the spot my glance surveys, there equally is He.
'Tis not for beard, hair, eyebrow only, Kalandarism should care:
The Kalandar computes the Path by adding hair to hair.[38]
The Kalandar who gives a hair's head,
An easy path doth tread:
The Kalandar of genuine stamp,
As Háfiz gives his head.