XII
Oh! where are deeds of virtue and this frail spirit where?
How wide the space that sunders the bounds of Here and There!
Can toping aught in common with works and worship own?
Where is regard for sermons, where is the rebeck's Tone?[15]
My heart abhors the cloister, and the false cowl its sign:
Where is the Magian's cloister, and where is his pure wine?
'Tis fled: may memory sweetly mind me of Union's days!
Where is that voice of anger, where those coquettish ways?
Can a foe's heart be kindled by the friend's face so bright?
Where is a lamp unlighted, and the clear Day-star's light?
As dust upon thy threshold supplies my eyes with balm,
If I forsake thy presence, where can I hope for calm?
Turn from that chin's fair apple; a pit is on the way.
To what, O heart, aspir'st thou? Whither thus quickly? Say!
Seek not, O friend, in Háfiz
Patience, nor rest from care:
Patience and rest—what are they?
Where is calm slumber, where?