My heart of the world is weary And all that is therein;
There's nought in my mind save the Loved One, Of all the things that bin.

To me if a waft from the rosebed Of union with thee arrive,
My heart, like the bud, for joyance, Abideth not in its skin.

Th'exhorting of me, the madman, Distraught in the way of Love,
Were nigh to the tale of the idiot And pitcher and stone akin.

Go say to the bigot, sitting In solitude, “Blame us not
“If we've for our prayer-niche taken The curve of that eyebrow thin”.

'Twixt Kaabeh and Idol-temple No difference is: the Friend
Is present in every quarter, wherever the sight may win.

Caléndership's not in shaving Of eyebrows and beard and hair;
In hair-by-hair doing of duty It is and avoidance of sin.

Like Hafiz, the true Calénder Is he who renounceth self;
A trifle it is to part with The hair of the head and chin.