If that unkindly Shiraz Turk would take my heart within her hand,
I'd give Bokhara for the mole upon her cheek, or Samarkand!

Saki, what wine is left for me pour, for in heaven thou wilt not see
Musalla's sweet rose-haunted walks, nor Ruknabad's wave-dimpled strand.

Alas! those maids, whose wanton ways such turmoil in our city raise,
Have stolen patience from my heart as spoil is seized by Tartar band.

Our darling's beauty hath, indeed, of our imperfect love no need;
On paint and pigment, patch and line, a lovely face makes no demand.

Of wine and minstrel let us speak, nor fate's dark riddle's answer seek,
Since none hath guessed and none shall guess enigmas none may understand.

That beauty, waxing day by day, of Joseph needs must lead astray
The fair Zulaikha from the veils for modest maids' seclusion planned.

Auspicious youths more highly prize the counsels of the old and wise
Than life itself: then take, O heart, the counsels ready to thy hand!

You spoke me ill; I acquiesced. God pardon you! 'twas for the best;
Yet scarce such bitter answer suits those rubies sugar-sweet and bland!

Your ode you've sung, your pearls you've strung; come, chant it sweetly, HAFIZ mine!
That as you sing the sky may fling the Pleiades' bejeweled band!