Poem #414

The rose-bower of delight begins to bloom—where is the rosy Saki?

The breath of spring blows soft, yet where's the wine both sweet and silky?

Each newborn rose recalls the face of my beloved near;

But where's the ear to heed the word, the eye to judge sincere?

Our banquet lacks the musk of joy to scent the festive air;

O breathing dawn of fragrant soul, where is the musk of hair?

I cannot bear my rose's pride, O breeze, in beauty's show;

I've stained my hands with heart's own blood—now where's my loved one? Go!

Should dawn's dim candle boast against the splendor of your cheek,

The rival's tongue grows long—where is the gleaming blade we seek?

She said, “Do you not crave a kiss upon my ruby bliss?”

I perished of the longing, yet what power grants me this?

Though Hafez holds wise treasure in the words his lips impart,

The grief of this ignoble age has chilled the speaking heart.