To me love's echo is the sweetest sound
Of all that 'neath this circling Round
Hath stayed.
LXXXVI
A beggar am I; yet enamoured of one of cypress mould:
One in whose belt the hand bides only with silver and with gold.
Bring wine! let first the hand of Háfiz
The cheery cup embrace!
Yet only on one condition—
No word beyond this place!
LXXXVII
When beamed Thy beauty on creation's morn,
The world was set on fire by love new-born.
Thy cheek shone bright, yet angels' hearts were cold:
Then flashed it fire, and turned to Adam's mould.
The lamp of Reason from this flame had burned,
But lightning jealousy the world o'erturned.
The enemy Thy secret sought to gain;
A hand unseen repelled the beast profane.
The die of Fate may render others glad:
My own heart saddens, for its lot is sad.