What seems for my own good is this: my heart from him to guard;
For one who knows not good from ill its guardianship were hard.
Agile and sweet of fourteen years that idol whom I praise:
His ear-rings in her soul retains the moon of fourteen days.
A breath as the sweet smell of milk comes from those sugary lips;
But from those black and roguish eyes behold what blood there drips!
My heart to find that new-born rose has gone upon its way;
But where can it be found, O Lord? I've lost it many a day.
If the young friend who owns my heart my centre thus can break,
The Pasha will command him soon the lifeguard's rank to take.
I'd sacrifice my life in thanks,
If once that pearl of sheen
Would make the shell of Háfiz' eye
Its place of rest serene.
CXXXV
I tried my fortune in this city lorn:
From out its whirlpool must my pack be borne.
I gnaw my hand, and, heaving sighs of ire,
I light in my rent frame the rose's fire.
Sweet sang the bulbul at the close of day,
The rose attentive on her leafy spray: