In grief be patient,
Night and day,
Till thy fortune, Háfiz,
Thy wish obey.
VI
My heart no longer brooks my hand: sages, aid for God my woe!
Else, alas! my secret-deep soon the curious world must know.
The bark we steer has stranded: O breeze auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the Friend we love so well.
The ten days' favor of the Sphere—magic is; a tale which lies!
Thou who wouldst befriend thy friends, seize each moment ere it flies.
At night, 'mid wine and flowers, the bulbul tuned his song:
"Bring thou the morning bowl: prepare, ye drunken throng!"
Sikander's mirror, once so famed, is the wine-filled cup: behold
All that haps in Dárá's realm glassed within its wondrous mould.[7]
O bounteous man, since Heaven sheds o'er thee blessings mild,
Inquire, one day at least, how fares Misfortune's child.
What holds in peace this twofold world, let this twofold sentence show:
"Amity to every friend, courtesy to every foe."
Upon the way of honor, impeded was my range;
If this affect thee, strive my destiny to change.