In whatso love-questing, wherein, Excepting fireflaught, there is not
In whatso love-questing, wherein, Excepting fireflaught, there is not,
For amaze, if a harvest consume, Sure reason in aught there is not.
A bird, to whose heart it ne'er fell With sorrow to make acquaintance,
A branch on the tree of his life, With leaves of mirth fraught, there is not.
No help in Love's workshop there is For infidelity's presence:
What fuel is there for Hell-fire, If Boulehéb naught there is not?
In the soul-sellers' canon good works In toping consist and good breeding;
There lineage is not esteemed And reckoning sought there is not.
In a company, whereas the sun Is reckoned no more than an atom,
To greaten one self by the Law Of courtesy taught there is not.
Drink wine; for if life without end To find in this perishing world is,
A means, save the wine of Bihísht, Whereby it is wrought, there is not.
The Loved One's possession, for one Strait-handed as thou art, my Hafiz,
Shall only betide when a day, To night which is brought, there is not.
For amaze, if a harvest consume, Sure reason in aught there is not.
A bird, to whose heart it ne'er fell With sorrow to make acquaintance,
A branch on the tree of his life, With leaves of mirth fraught, there is not.
No help in Love's workshop there is For infidelity's presence:
What fuel is there for Hell-fire, If Boulehéb naught there is not?
In the soul-sellers' canon good works In toping consist and good breeding;
There lineage is not esteemed And reckoning sought there is not.
In a company, whereas the sun Is reckoned no more than an atom,
To greaten one self by the Law Of courtesy taught there is not.
Drink wine; for if life without end To find in this perishing world is,
A means, save the wine of Bihísht, Whereby it is wrought, there is not.
The Loved One's possession, for one Strait-handed as thou art, my Hafiz,
Shall only betide when a day, To night which is brought, there is not.
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