III.
O balmy Wind! hast thou my mistress seen?
Thou must have stolen that musky scent from her;
Beware! thy fingers are too free by far,
For what hast thou to do with her bright curls?
O Rose! how can'st thou rival her red cheek?
Her cheek is smooth, but thine is rough with thorns.
And how dar'st thou, Sweet Basil! sport thy locks?
Her locks are glossy, thine are brown as dust.
And thou, Narcissus! wherefore gaze at her?
Her eyes are bright, but thine are dim with sleep.
O Cypress! when her stately form draws near,
Why wilt thou hope to be the garden's pride?
What would'st thou choose, O Wisdom! if to choose
Were left thee still—in preference to Love?
Be patient, Hafiz! if thy love endure—
If may be thine, some day, to meet thy love.
