The lion's cub with other verse |
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 | The lion's cub |  |
IV.
If that fair maid of Shiraz would be mine,
I would Bokhara give, and Samarcand,
Just for the small, black mole upon her cheek:
Go straightway, boy, and bring what wine remains;
We shall not find the banks of Rocnabad,
Nor the bowers of Mosellay, in Paradise.
I would Bokhara give, and Samarcand,
Just for the small, black mole upon her cheek:
63
We shall not find the banks of Rocnabad,
Nor the bowers of Mosellay, in Paradise.
Ah me, those wanton nymphs, those cunning girls,
For whose ripe charms Shiraz is up in arms—
They steal my peace of mind, my quiet heart.
They need not, dear ones, our imperfect love,
Fair faces need not perfume, paint, nor curls.
For whose ripe charms Shiraz is up in arms—
They steal my peace of mind, my quiet heart.
They need not, dear ones, our imperfect love,
Fair faces need not perfume, paint, nor curls.
Discourse with me of minstrels and of wine,
Nor seek the secrets of Futurity;
No man can solve that riddle. Let it rest.
Love rules us all, but Beauty still rules Love;
Nor wonder, then, that Yussef's loveliness
Plucked off Zuleika's veil of modesty.
Nor seek the secrets of Futurity;
No man can solve that riddle. Let it rest.
Love rules us all, but Beauty still rules Love;
Nor wonder, then, that Yussef's loveliness
Plucked off Zuleika's veil of modesty.
Hear sage advice, dear heart, for tender youths
Love old men's counsels better than their souls.
Thou speak'st ill of me, without offence;
May God forgive thee, thou hast spoken well;
But ah, do bitter words become thy mouth,
Those ruby lips, whence only sweetness falls?
Love old men's counsels better than their souls.
Thou speak'st ill of me, without offence;
May God forgive thee, thou hast spoken well;
But ah, do bitter words become thy mouth,
Those ruby lips, whence only sweetness falls?
Thou hast composed thy song, and strung thy pearls,
Now sing them sweetly, Hafiz, do thy best;
For heaven has sprinkled over all thy songs
The light and beauty of the Pleiades.
Now sing them sweetly, Hafiz, do thy best;
For heaven has sprinkled over all thy songs
The light and beauty of the Pleiades.
| The lion's cub | |