Should he, apart from whom I've suffered a life-long illness, day by
day,
Bestow on me a glance, one only, beneath that orb dark-gray
I'd die.
"The ruby of my lips," thou saidst, "now bale, now balsam may exhale":
At one time from their healing balsam, at one time from their bale
I'd die.
How trim thy gait! May eye of evil upon thy face be never bent!
There dwells within my head this fancy; that at thy feet content
I'd die.
Though no place has been found for Háfiz
In Love's retreat, where hid thou art,
For me thine every part has beauty,
Before thine every part—
I'd die.
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.