Alá yá! send the Cup round! O Sáki! brim and send;
Love, which at first was easy, grows harder at the end;

For ache of what the Breeze brought from that musk-scented brow,
Those purple tangled tresses, hearts' blood is dropping now.

Well! dye the prayer-mat darker with wine, then; as 'tis bid;
Such solace of Love's stages from Magians is not hid;

But this stage, Best-Belovèd! is too long! when the bell
Calls to unpack the camels, by God! it will be well.

The Black Nights, and the fearful Wave, and whirpool wild of Fate; --
Oh, lightly-burdened ones ashore! what reck ye of our state?

Wending mine own way, unto woe and ill-fame I was brought;
How, in the loud Assemblies, could such high lore be taught?

               . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

If thou wilt find The Presence, Hafiz! why, seek it so!
This world or the Belovèd, choose one, and let one go!