Preacher, it is all in vain you preach to me,
No business of anyone’s but mine
Where I have sinned and what my end will be.
I ponder too on subtleties divine—
Pray solve me this: how Allah from the void
The waist of my Beloved made so fine
That it exists but in the lover’s thought,
Nor can be apprehended of the eye,
A metaphysic fancy of the mind—
Solve me this riddle, preacher: how and why.
Again, you promise, when we leave behind
This jasmined earth, its roses and its dew,
Eight paradises up there in the sky;
In truth, it gives a man a haste to die
To think of living after death with you!
Listen! One corner of the earth with her
Is more to me than all the stars on high;
Down here’s my heaven, though yours may be up there!
What if to ruin all my life has gone?
Upon that very ruin do I rear
This building of my dreams, and very fair
Is it to dwell in and to look upon—
This tavern-temple of the Thought of Her.
And, if to you my fate should seem unkind,
Unjust my love, and oft-times harsh to me,
It is enough that she it was designed
This exquisite anguish of my destiny.
Hafiz is but a pipe for her to play;
So that he feels the sweetness of her breath
Through all his being make its thrilling way,
He does not heed what any preacher says;
And only when she takes her lips away
Shall Hafiz taste the bitterness of death.
- Hafiz of Shiraz, Ode 39
trans. Richard Le Gallienne, The Page Company, Boston. 1903.