To-morrow at Rizván's green glade, should they refuse to make it ours,
We from their halls will the ghilmán, the houris from their bowers
Draw.
Where can we see her winking brow, that we, as the new moon of old,
At once may the celestial ball, as with a bat of gold,
Draw?
O Háfiz! it becomes us not
Our boastful claims thus forth to put:
Beyond the limits of our rug
Why would we fain our foot
Draw?
CLIX
Aloud I say it, and with heart of glee:
"Love's slave am I, and from both worlds am free."
Can I, the bird of sacred gardens, tell
Into this net of chance how first I fell?
My place the Highest Heaven, an angel born,
I came by Adam to this cloister lorn.
Sweet houris, Túbâ's shade, and Fountain's brink
Fade from my mind when of thy street I think.
Knows no astrologer my star of birth:
Lord, 'neath what plant bore me Mother Earth?
Since with ringed ear I've served Love's house of wine,
Grief's gratulations have each hour been mine.