If leans the human heart to any place,
Mine has a yearning to the grace
Of Farrukh.
That lofty soul
Shall have my service true,
That serves, as Háfiz,
The Hindú—[40]
Of Farrukh.
LXXI
When now the rose upon the meadow from Nothing into Being springs,
When at her feet the humble violet with her head low in worship clings,
Take from thy morn-filled cup refreshment while tabors and the harp
inspire,
Nor fail to kiss the chin of Sákí while the flute warbles and the lyre.
Sit thou with wine, with harp, with charmer, until the rose's bloom be
past;
For as the days of life which passes, is the brief week that she shall
last.
The face of earth, from herbal mansions, is lustrous as the sky; and
shines
With asterisms of happy promise, with stars that are propitious signs.
In gardens let Zoroaster's worship again with all its rites revive,
While now within the tulip's blossoms the fires of Nimrod[41] are alive.
Drink wine, presented by some beauty of Christ-like breath, of cheek
fair-hued;
And banish from thy mind traditions to Ád relating, and Thamúd.[42]
Earth rivals the Immortal Garden during the rose and lily's reign;
But what avails when the immortal is sought for on this earth in vain?