Poem #14

I said: 'O King of Beauty, pity this stranger's plight!'

He said: 'The heart's pursuer loses his way in the night.'

I said: 'Stay but a moment.'

He said: 'Nay, let me be; how can a home-bred darling bear such griefs as thee?'

What cares the one who sleeps on ermine, soft and deep,

if on the thorns and granite, the stranger tries to sleep?

O you who hold so many in your dark tresses' chain,

that mole upon your cheek sits with a lovely stain.

The wine's reflection glows upon your moon-bright face,

like purple Judas-leaves on a white rose's place.

The down upon your cheek has grown a strange design,

though in the Art of Beauty, strange is the dark outline.

I said: 'O Night of Strangers, your curls as black as jet!

Beware my dawn-time cry, and the tears that are wet.'

He said: 'Hafez, the friends are lost in wonder's maze;

no wonder if the stranger sits in a weary daze.'