My turn has come; behold! Majnún is no more;[26]
Five days shall fly, and each one's turn shall be o'er.
Love's ample realm, sweet joy, and all that is glad,
Save for his bounty I should never have had.[27]
I and my heart—though both should sacrificed be,
Grant my friend's weal, their loss were nothing to me.
Ne'er shall his form within my pupil be dim,
For my eye's cell is but a chamber for him.
All the fresh blooms that on the greensward we view,
Gain but from him their scent and beauty of hue.
Háfiz seems poor;
But look within, for his breast,
Shrining his love,
With richest treasure is blest.
XXIII
Prone at my friend's high gates, my Will its head lays still:
Whate'er my head awaits is ordered by that will.
My friend resembles none; in vain I sought to trace,
In glance of moon or sun, the radiance of that face.
Can morning's breeze make known what grief this heart doth hold,
Which as a bud hath grown, compressed by fold on fold?