The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sonnets from Hafez & Other Verses

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title : Sonnets from Hafez & Other Verses

Author : Elizabeth Bridges Daryush

active 14th century Hafiz

Release date : August 16, 2015 [eBook #49716]

Language : English

Credits : Produced by Sonya Schermann and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS FROM HAFEZ & OTHER VERSES *** 

  

   

    
     Transcriber's Note:
    
   

   

    The cover was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
   

  

  

   

    SONNETS FROM HAFEZ
    

    

    & other verses
   

  

  

   [decoration]
  

  

   

    

     BY
    

    

     ELIZABETH BRIDGES
    

   

  

  

   

    

     HUMPHREY MILFORD
    

    

     OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
    

    

     LONDON    EDINBURGH    GLASGOW    COPENHAGEN
    

    

     NEW YORK    TORONTO    MELBOURNE    CAPE TOWN
    

    

     BOMBAY    CALCUTTA    MADRAS    SHANGHAI    PEKING
    

    

     1921
    

   

  

  

   

    

     PRINTED IN ENGLAND
    

    

     AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
    

    

     BY FREDERICK HALL
    

   

  

  

   

    NOTE
   

  

  

   
    The
   
   last fifteen pieces in this book, which are founded
on odes of Hafez, are not translations. Their aim is rather
to convey if possible something of the original spirit than
to give a faithful rendering of either thought or form;
& I have not scrupled to omit, insert, alter or even
deliberately to pervert the idea as fancy or feeling dictated.
Some of the poems follow the Persian fairly closely
(especially nos. 30, 31, 34, & 35); others are merely founded
on or suggested by one or two couplets.
  

  

   No. 4 was suggested by a Persian dialect quatrain by
Baba Tahir.
  

  

   The remainder are original.
  

  

   E. B.
  

  

   

    

     

      
       Chilswell
      
      ,
     

     

      
       Sept. 1920
      
      .
     

    

   

  

  

   

    

     TO
    

    

     A. A. D.
    

   

  

  

   

    1
   

  

  

   

    

     

      When sunlight faileth,
     

     

      & day’s glow is gone;
     

     

      When chill mist traileth
     

     

      Where warm splendour shone;
     

    

    

     

      When summer’s pleasure
     

     

      Dieth,—dieth too
     

     

      The transient treasure
     

     

      That with life up-grew
     

    

    

     

      & none may herit,
     

     

      Where then wilt thou turn,
     

     

      O vagrant spirit,
     

     

      That no home didst earn;
     

    

    

     

      When none replieth
     

     

      Of thy friends so true,
     

     

      When sweet Joy crieth
     

     

      ‘Adieu, love, adieu!’
     

    

   

  

  

   

    2
   

  

  

   

    

     

      I called to fading day
     

     

      As o’er the hill she flew,
     

     

      ‘Whither, glad light, away?
     

     

      Take me, O take me too!’
     

     

      She said, ‘O wingless one,
     

     

      Thou hast thy memoried sun’.
     

    

    

     

      I said to the droop’d rose
     

     

      Awhile that was so fair,
     

     

      ‘Why dost so swiftly lose,
     

     

      Sweet grace, thy blooming air?’
     

     

      She said, ‘This is my doom;
     

     

      Cherish thou beauty’s tomb’.
     

    

    

     

      I cried to Joy as late
     

     

      I stood, bidding farewell,
     

     

      ‘Must this be too thy fate
     

     

      Whom I have loved so well?
     

     

      He said, ‘My gift I leave
     

     

      With her whom I bereave’.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    3
   

  

  

   

    

     

      O youth’s young cloudlet, O freshness free,
     

     

      With heart so light on the winds to fly
     

     

      Or glisten in spray up-scatter’d,—I
     

     

      Am sad as the full surgings of the sea;
     

     

      I gave thee birth, thou shalt return to me.
     

    

    

     

      Thy heart is light as the empty wind
     

     

      Of barren purposeless change,—but I
     

     

      Am the thought-burden’d slow-searching mind:
     

     

      I am the agony to form & find;—
     

     

      The fluxing travail of eternity.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    4
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Wend I, wander I, past all worlds that be;
     

     

      Ever have I wander’d or e’er the earth was made;
     

     

      Urg’d like the álien áir o’er land & sea,
     

     

      Sleepless as sunlight, joyless as its shade.
     

    

    

     

      Not on your earth travel I; sáy not to mé
     

     

      ‘Cease awhile thy wandering, Ó tir’d day!’
     

     

      Say not, ‘O pilgrim, rest thee; comfort thee’:
     

     

      Not hére is my journey’s end, Indus nor Cathay.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    5
    

    

    ON A HILL
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Eyes that o’er the landscape fly,
     

     

      Over dale & wood & stream
     

     

      To the cloud-realms of the sky;
     

    

    

     

      Eyes that wander still & dream,
     

     

      Hopes that ever forward press
     

     

      Seeking lovelier loveliness;
     

    

    

     

      All the world is yours to roam
     

     

      —Searching eye & swiftling thought—
     

     

      Nowhere can ye make your home;
     

    

    

     

      Not where peace so vainly sought
     

     

      Bower’d in the valley lies,
     

     

      Nor content’s small villages;
     

    

    

     

      Nor can pleasure’s garish dress
     

     

      Tempt you to a mean caress
     

     

      —Thoughts that will not rest nor stay—
     

    

    

     

      Ever do ye tell her nay;
     

     

      Still ye wander—‘Where, O say,
     

     

      Lies our vision’d loveliness?’
     

    

   

  

  

   

    6
    

    

    AFTER MUSIC
   

  

  

   

    

     

      O what availeth thee thy melting mood,
     

     

      Thine ecstasy
     

     

      When once again thy thralldoms o’er thee brood:
     

    

    

     

      & what doth profit thee thy courage high,
     

     

      & strength so fain;
     

     

      So soon agen thy coward heart shall fly?
     

    

    

     

      For more & stronger strife our strength shall strain,
     

     

      Though hope’s best good
     

     

      Be but this hope: to strive, & strive again.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    7
   

  

  

   

    

     

      All things born to break
     

     

      In meek sacrifice
     

     

      For another’s sake,
     

    

    

     

      All man’s striving vain,
     

     

      Lavish’d as the price
     

     

      Of the heart’s hid pain—
     

    

    

     

      Long, O spirit-bird,
     

     

      Of thy lonely fear
     

     

      Hast thou sung unheard
     

    

    

     

      In hope’s moon-lit wood,
     

     

      While no creature near
     

     

      Knew nor understood.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    8
   

  

  

   

    

     

      If there be any power in passion’s prayer—
     

     

      But no: such ultimate longings have no word:
     

     

      There is no eloquence in last despair.
     

    

    

     

      Many have voiced their pain & answer heard;
     

     

      Though ’twere but this, that to give bodied form
     

     

      To grief, call’d their own heart to combat it:
     

     

      But not ev’n thus can I pray;—thou strong storm,
     

     

      All-overpowering, baffling bravest wit,
     

     

      Wild spirit spurning cage of time or name,
     

     

      Furious intangible fire, no duteous thought
     

     

      Can deal with thee, to no calm altar-flame
     

     

      Confine, nor wish acceptable,—O if aught
     

    

    

     

      From such dumb need can reach aught’s hearing ear,
     

     

      This is it now, O hear, O hear, O hear!
     

    

   

  

  

   

    9
   

  

  

   

    

     

      In love’s great ocean, whose calm-shelter’d shore
     

     

      Must he for ever leave, whose soul is bound
     

     

      On farthest quest, life’s wonders to explore—
     

    

    

     

      That mightiest flood, all-whelming, torment-toss’d,
     

     

      Wherein must ev’ry lover’s self be lost
     

     

      Ere the Belovéd’s lovelier self be found—
     

    

    

     

      Think not, O searcher, in that sea to find
     

     

      Food for thine earth-born strength & lustful show,
     

     

      Nor glorious pearl to deck thy worldly mind,
     

    

    

     

      Nor isle of ease; all such doth he forego
     

     

      Who, recking nought of hurt to pride or limb,
     

     

      Heark’neth to love’s unchallengeable call:
     

    

    

     

      Yea, who would venture, no help is for him
     

     

      Save whole surrender; health, strength, life & all.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    10
   

  

  

   

    

     

      When sorrow hath outsoar’d our nature’s clime,
     

     

      Leaving it far remote &, like a strong
     

     

      Eagle lone brooding on her peak sublime,
     

     

      Graspeth in solitude her towering wrong;
     

    

    

     

      & no more hankereth for petty prey
     

     

      Nor bleeding victim wherewithal to still
     

     

      Her hunger of desolate passion, but thus aye
     

     

      Sitteth, devour’d by her own vital ill,
     

    

    

     

      Motionless, nerveless, where for her no sound
     

     

      Of life is, only the wind’s alien
     

     

      Moan that meandereth sleeplessly around
     

     

      The promontory,—what saviour can then
     

    

    

     

      Help helpless sorrow? What shall break that spell
     

     

      Of icy death in life, that shackling Hell?
     

    

   

  

  

   

    11
   

  

  

   

    

     

      O gentle weariness,
     

     

      Thine is the power that can all spirits free
     

     

      From bonding-trouble, thou art a goddess
     

     

      To all the suffering slaves of misery.
     

    

    

     

      Thy sanctuary
     

     

      No suppliant vainly seeketh; wheresoe’er
     

     

      Desperate grief is, then unfailingly
     

     

      Is thine all-hallowing rest & refuge there.
     

    

    

     

      Our sorrow hath outgrown
     

     

      Solace, yet still in thine all-mothering hand
     

     

      Is balm of soft oblivion, who alone
     

     

      Our never-ending needs dost understand.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    12
    

    

    1919
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Peace, for whose presence did we erewhile call
     

     

      With cry sincere, vowing (God knoweth, those
     

     

      Prótests how passionate were) to love thee all,
     

     

      Yet when thou camest, pander’d to thy foes
     

     

      Weaklier than ever, now again the throes
     

     

      Convulse our being; now, Peace, may’st thou see,
     

     

      This lust-devoted land is not for thee.
     

    

    

     

      Farewell! Small wonder is it if thou flee
     

     

      Such faithlessness, yet doth thy memory still
     

     

      Dwell in each place where thou hast walked with me,
     

     

      In dawn’s fresh mead or by noon’s shady rill,
     

     

      Or when cool evening wafteth, on our hill;
     

     

      Allwheres that beauty’s comfort-laden breath
     

     

      Sootheth tired sorrow till it slumbereth.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    13
    

    

    SONG
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Beauty is a waving tree,
     

     

      Beauty is a flower,
     

     

      Beauty is a grassy lea
     

     

      & a shady bower,
     

     

      Beauty is the verdant Spring
     

     

      In our hearts awakening.
     

    

    

     

      Beauty is a summer sun
     

     

      Warming all the land,
     

     

      Whose full bounty doth o’errun
     

     

      More than our demand;
     

     

      Spreadeth Beauty her kind feast
     

     

      Lavishly for man & beast.
     

    

    

     

      Autumn’s quiet hast thou too,
     

     

      Beauty, who canst feed
     

     

      Every craving, known or new
     

     

      Of the spirit’s need,
     

     

      Laying up a lasting store
     

     

      Of ripe bliss for evermore.
     

    

    

     

      O true Beauty, though joy’s vain
     

     

      Seasons come & go,
     

     

      Thou a refuge dost remain
     

     

      From all wintry woe,
     

     

      Thou art still the perfect clime
     

     

      Where no transience is nor time.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    14
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Wheresoever beauty flies,
     

     

      Follow her on eager wings
     

     

      Beauteous wild imaginings.
     

    

    

     

      Wheresoever she may tread,
     

     

      Lovely vivid flowers arise,
     

     

      Springing swift as thoughts unsaid.
     

    

    

     

      Living beauty, more than wise,
     

     

      Fair art thou to living eyes,
     

     

      Though less fair than is the dead
     

     

      Myrtle-wreath that more we prize;
     

    

    

     

      Relic of the one dear head
     

     

      That for each it garlanded.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    15
   

  

  

   

    

     

      When first to earth thy gentle spirit came
     

     

      From some soft climate of Elysian field,
     

     

      Garmented in its own ethereal flame;
     

    

    

     

      When first from heav’n’s high peace it enter’d here,
     

     

      No armour had it then, nor guarding shield,
     

     

      Nor sword for safety, nor attacking spear,
     

     

      No pang’d misgivings suffered it, nor fear,
     

     

      Seeing in every face its own sweet face,
     

     

      Smiling to treachery with trustful eyes,
     

     

      Finding in nature its own nature’s grace:
     

     

      —So Adam in his vision’d Paradise
     

     

      Saw but God’s gifts, till taste of bitter ruth
     

     

      Taught him what earth’s creation is in truth:—
     

    

    

     

      Now, O stern angel, none can make relent
     

     

      Thy steely wrath, thy sword of punishment.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    16
   

  

  

   

    

     

      For sake of these two splendours do the wise
     

     

      Set store on riches, & for these alone:
     

     

      For these two glories only do they prize
     

     

      Power & majesty of kingly throne:
     

    

    

     

      Or this: to succour friendship in distress,
     

     

      To comfort humble sorrow, nor despise
     

     

      To cheer the joyless heart of weariness,
     

     

      To guard & aid whom fortune doth oppress
     

     

      That he to life’s glad kingdom be restor’d
     

     

      (& thus their monument of thanks they raise
     

     

      More high than pomp’s vain pinnacle of praise),
     

    

    

     

      Or this: to forge therefrom a trenchant sword
     

     

      Whereat shall poltroon evil cower & fly,
     

     

      & smite Hell’s fiends of foulness that they die.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    17
   

  

  

   

    

     

      She hath not beauty, that ill-fortun’d gem
     

     

      Wherewith may women dazzle men’s meek eyes
     

     

      Ere they enslave, un-man & slaughter them.
     

    

    

     

      Nor doth she vaunt afar her heart’s hid prize,
     

     

      Nor with wide-lavish’d scent of hope allure
     

     

      Ere men behold her, nor with rich disguise.
     

    

    

     

      Nor hath she wit, that sword wherewith to smart
     

     

      Delicate souls, with flashing stroke unsure
     

     

      Of sharp misprise, wounding some gentle heart.
     

    

    

     

      Yet not unlovely she, my silent rose,
     

     

      That only may to true love’s eyes unclose,
     

     

      Nor yet doth stintingly her smiles impart;
     

    

    

     

      —But should bold evil venture, O what proud
     

     

      Pitilessness hath she then, what anger loud!
     

    

   

  

  

   

    18
   

  

  

   

    

     

      When thou art gone, & when are gone all those
     

     

      That knew thee & that loved thy living grace,
     

     

      Merged in the formless flood whence all arose,
     

    

    

     

      When thou hast passed, & of thy life no trace
     

     

      Remaineth, nor remembrancer to say
     

     

      ‘Such was he, such his form, his voice, his face’,
     

    

    

     

      In that new time shall rise, untouched by thee,
     

     

      The eddying circles still, & pass away;
     

     

      Full many a spring shall turn to winter dree,
     

     

      & morn to nightfall, & life’s human day
     

     

      Shall change from youth’s bright hope to darkling pain,
     

     

      When thy young life in life’s hard war is slain,
     

    

    

     

      When thou art gone, & I, & our strong love
     

     

      Which now Time’s change doth but more changeless prove.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    19
    

    

    A YOUTH
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Play thou on men as on a hárp’s stríng:
     

     

      Though of themselves they lifeless are
     

     

      In them thy spirit’s music shall ring.
     

    

    

     

      Breathe thou in them as through a reed
     

     

      Thy soul’s strong message, through them declare
     

     

      To the dead world thy living need.
     

    

    

     

      They are to thee as the senseless words
     

     

      That embody thought’s full-felt commands;
     

     

      Thy passive tools, obedient hands
     

     

      To serve thy purpose, thy trusty swords:
     

     

      They shall thy beauteous will express
     

     

      Though they be graceless & purposeless.
     

    

    

     

      Yea, live thou in men as their life’s will,
     

     

      So long as life is, & good & ill.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    20
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Go, book: go, vessel laden with the mind
     

     

      That builded thee, go now & bear thy freight
     

     

      Of man’s old messaging to all mankind.
     

    

    

     

      Say first:—Such oft-told things as I relate,
     

     

      Such pond’rous words strung on unperish’d thought,
     

     

      Such pearly praises worn by countless queens,
     

     

      Such temper’d swords wherewith heroes have fought,
     

     

      Such sceptres that have ruled all earth’s demesnes,
     

     

      Such broider’d robes, such antique jewelry,
     

     

      Such orbs, such thrones, such treasures (say thou then)
     

     

      These the rich heritage of poesy
     

     

      Are as wealth’s burden is to untaught men;
     

    

    

     

      Life’s costly crowns that but disaster bring,
     

     

      To who is not in spirit born a king.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    21
    

    

    ATTAINMENT
   

  

  

   

    

     

      When the strong climber his last mountain-crest
     

     

      Attaineth, & the point for which he strove
     

     

      Is reached, & his desire made manifest,
     

    

    

     

      & seating him the topmost heights above
     

     

      He gazeth on each aspect leisurely,
     

     

      Considering the path by which he clomb
     

    

    

     

      & which so many attempted, & how he
     

     

      The first of all his race had strength to come
     

     

      Unto that eminence, & how this throne
     

    

    

     

      Shall men hereafter to his name recall;
     

     

      Then more than ever is he strangely lone,
     

     

      Seeing earth’s dwellings spread out far & small;
     

    

    

     

      & more unfathom’d seemeth & more high,
     

     

      Eternal heaven’s unchanged immensity.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    22
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Since neither man’s proud pomp & kingly name
     

     

      Endureth, nor his monumental throne,
     

     

      Nor honour’d shrine, nor pinnacle of fame;
     

    

    

     

      Since borne in agony to life he came
     

     

      & in pain too he passeth, one by one
     

     

      His joys desert him, friendless & alone,
     

    

    

     

      Yea since all lov’d delights their cycles range,
     

     

      All to their parent elements return,
     

     

      Air to air, dust to dust,—when Thy Life’s breath,
     

    

    

     

      The fire of Thine inscrutable Will them burn,
     

     

      Scattering, destroying,—yea since finisheth
     

     

      All things, or death, or marring grief, or change;
     

    

    

     

      Since this is, this must needs Thy purpose be,
     

     

      Through such dark doors to win Thy works to Thee.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    23
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Pureness of pale moon, loneness of far skies,
     

     

      Splendour of starry regions & bright sun,
     

     

      Grandeur of universal vastnesses,
     

    

    

     

      Sweetness of flower, staunchness of stalwart tree,
     

     

      Delicacy of small verdures ev’ry one,
     

     

      Loveliness of all lowly forms that be,
     

    

    

     

      Gladness of ev’ry bird that gaily sings,
     

     

      Ardour of eager beasts that hunt & kill,
     

     

      Rapture of all life-raptur’d living things;
     

    

    

     

      Yea man’s one rapture too & his life’s joy,
     

     

      His strength, his beauty & his living will,
     

     

      Each soul’s will to create & to destroy,—
     

    

    

     

      O thou who visitest these dwellings, why
     

     

      Thus deignest thou, who art so great & high?
     

    

   

  

  

   

    VERSES AFTER HAFEZ
   

  

  

   

    24
    

    

    DAWN
   

  

  

   

    

     

      I saw fair Fortune, one clear morning, touch
     

     

      Like the bright-sceptred sun’s first point of scorn,
     

     

      With slightest finger my full-ripen’d corn.
     

    

    

     

      I glimps’d her beauty: slender was she, such
     

     

      As the moon’s waning sickle, paled afar,
     

     

      Or dawn’s faint star-sheaves that scarce vision’d are.
     

    

    

     

      I said, ‘O my life’s crowning queen, for thee
     

     

      Have I long toiled without repose or rest;
     

     

      In hope of thee, my harvest heavenly,
     

     

      Labour’d & waited, still thou lingerest,
     

     

      Tryest me still’—She turning smil’d & said,
     

     

      ‘Though this be, be not thou uncomforted:
     

    

    

     

      Lo now already thy night-ending sun
     

     

      In world-seen splendour hath his day begun’.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    25
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Come let us drink & deeply drown
     

     

      In Heav’n’s pure wine our sorrowing!
     

     

      Fling ye earth’s faded garlands down,
     

     

      Scatter away life’s flowering!
     

    

    

     

      Though sorrow’s myriad armies strive
     

     

      To subjugate & slay us, we,
     

     

      O proud cup-bearer, will contrive
     

     

      To overcome their tyranny.
     

    

    

     

      O earth’s sad lover, drink & throw
     

     

      Unto high heaven thy misery:
     

     

      So shall perchance bright beauty know
     

     

      Thy longing need & bend to thee.
     

    

    

     

      Not in this life’s sad city grow
     

     

      Immortal flowers: O friends, arise!
     

     

      Drink we the wine of truth & go
     

     

      To deathless joys of Paradise.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    26
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Once more, O happy hill & peaceful plain,
     

     

      Once more, O kindly meadow, laugh with glee:
     

     

      Now is all earth’s old nature young again.
     

    

    

     

      Once more the lily may her lover see;
     

     

      Once more the eager tulip lifteth up
     

     

      Unto the wine-filled rose her golden cup.
     

    

    

     

      O hold thou dear the flowers, that through Spring’s door
     

     

      Enter thy garden: ere thou may’st no more
     

     

      Behold them, love them who live but for thee.
     

    

    

     

      Greet them, ere they through Autumn’s gate depart:
     

     

      Since for thy pleasuring God made them be,
     

     

      Gaze on them gladly,—on me too, sweet heart,
     

    

    

     

      Who for thy sake alone live; give me one
     

     

      Welcome, once smile on me, ere I be gone.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    27
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Tell me not, mournful Preacher, that to prize
     

     

      Beauty of flower or song or mistress fair,
     

     

      Is to forgo the sweets of Paradise.
     

    

    

     

      Say not, ‘Life’s pleasance is a deathly snare:
     

     

      Shun it, so would’st thou save thy soul alive;
     

     

      Blind thee, & in drear temple pray & strive’.
     

    

    

     

      Know thou, all gladness is God’s house of grace;
     

     

      All loveliness is thy Belovéd’s face;
     

     

      All beauteous earth is Heav’n’s gay garden-ground.
     

    

    

     

      To love the rose, the fair, the gladsome bird,
     

     

      Life’s lovely bliss, wherever it be found,
     

     

      To love love’s truth from whomsoever heard,
     

    

    

     

      This is their faith, who see with seeing eyes,
     

     

      Their worship & their endless Paradise.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    28
   

  

  

   

    

     

      What madness ’twas, I know not, that thus enchanted me;
     

     

      What wine, nor who the bringer, nor wherefore enter’d he.
     

    

    

     

      —Lament no more, O full heart, thy love so close confin’d!
     

     

      O rosebud, ope thy glory, thy beauty nought shall bind!
     

    

    

     

      Behold the flower-fill’d meadows; thou too, O wistful Dear,
     

     

      Take in thine hand the goblet, & lend to me thine ear!
     

    

    

     

      Lo, for our wintry sorrow I hold the certain cure!
     

     

      Lo, stern fate kneels before us! Lo, rapture evermore!
     

    

    

     

      —What madness ’twas I know not, that thus entrancéd me;
     

     

      What wine, nor who the bearer, nor whither vanished he.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    29
   

  

  

   

    

     

      She went.—O whither too, O one true love,
     

     

      Went my sad heart, thou knowest. Lo my prayer
     

     

      Followeth thee, & faith that nought may move.
     

    

    

     

      With prayer I came, & now with pleading strong
     

     

      I leave thee, that my flinchless trust thou share;
     

     

      So shall God aid us, who to him belong.
     

    

    

     

      Though all earth censure me, by Heaven I swear,
     

     

      Though tyranny me test with trial untold,
     

     

      No torments shall enwaver me, nor fear.
     

    

    

     

      Though pleasure her most dazzling joys forth hold,
     

     

      & luring musics to enravish me,
     

     

      Thee only see I, thee hear, only thee
     

    

    

     

      I follow:—thou who trav’lest love’s long road
     

     

      Knowest that there no rest is, nor abode.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    30
   

  

  

   

    

     

      I said, ‘O heavenly Leader, O truth’s day,
     

     

      Guide thou this wanderer’. He said, ‘In quest
     

     

      Of his own pleasure did thy wand’rer stray’.
     

    

    

     

      I pleaded, ‘Bide with me’. He answer’d, ‘Nay,
     

     

      Unmeet were thy cold couch & cheerless rest
     

     

      For me, soft-nurtur’d: vain is thy request.
     

    

    

     

      The royal-born, how hardly may endure
     

     

      After pomp’s luxury & silk array,
     

     

      Thy mean provisioning, thy dwelling poor’.
     

    

    

     

      Again I prayed, ‘O all life’s Sun, O true
     

     

      Light-giver, to our darkling earth return’.
     

     

      He said, ‘Pray not thus: since not ev’n my few
     

    

    

     

      Dare to behold me, strange ’twere not, nor new,
     

     

      That a poor wand’rer’s wilder’d heart should burn’.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    31
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Where is the pious doer? & I the estray’d one, where?
     

     

      Behold how far the distance, from his safe home to here!
     

    

    

     

      Dark is the stony desert, trackless & vast & dim,
     

     

      Where is hope’s guiding lantern? Where is faith’s star so fair?
     

    

    

     

      My heart fled from the cloister, & chant of monkish hymn,
     

     

      What can avail me sainthood, fasting & punctual prayer?
     

    

    

     

      What is the truth shall light me to heav’n’s strait thoroughfare?
     

     

      Whither, O heart, thus hastest? Arrest thee & beware!
     

    

    

     

      See what a lone adventure is thine unending quest!
     

     

      Fraught with what deadly danger! Set with what unseen snare!
     

    

    

     

      Say not, O friend, to Hafez, ‘Quiet thee now & rest!’
     

     

      Calm & content, what are they? Patience & peace, O where?
     

    

   

  

  

   

    32
   

  

  

   

    

     

      I said, ‘Thou knowest, O all-knowing Friend,
     

     

      My trouble for thee’. He said ‘Speak not so:
     

     

      Thy sorrow came; thy sorrow too shall go.’
     

    

    

     

      I said, ‘O light of Truth, when wilt thou spend
     

     

      Thy radiance?’ Answer heard I, ‘It may be
     

     

      This will not alway be denied to thee.’
     

    

    

     

      I said, ‘O Merciful, when wilt to me
     

     

      Show mercy?’ He replied ‘Till that time is
     

     

      Endure thou patiently my tyrannies.’
     

    

    

     

      I said again, ‘All-seeing, who dost see
     

     

      How long is pain, behold’st thou not then too
     

     

      How short sweet joy was?’—Answer’d he anew,
     

    

    

     

      ‘Be not thus comfortless, but comprehend:
     

     

      Ev’n as thy joys, thy sorrows too shall end.’
     

    

   

  

  

   

    33
   

  

  

   

    

     

      My heart the chamber of His musing is,
     

     

      Mine eye the mirror of His beauty’s face,
     

     

      My hand the servant of His purposes.
     

    

    

     

      I, who to neither wealth nor worldly place
     

     

      Incline, nor to religion’s promised ease,
     

     

      Bend low beneath the burden of His grace.
     

    

    

     

      Since all I have is of His bounty given,
     

     

      So is my poor pride but in His proud name,
     

     

      His humble service is my hoped-for Heaven.
     

    

    

     

      Nor shun I men’s despite & trampling sneer,
     

     

      Nor heed their slander, nor the infamous fame
     

     

      Of their blind censure; nay nor do I fear
     

    

    

     

      Death’s last defilement: though I pass in shame,
     

     

      Bright worlds His immortality proclaim.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    34
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Fair is the leisure of life’s garden-ground:
     

     

      Pleasant is friendship’s voice & mirth’s soft sound.
     

    

    

     

      Sweet are the perfumed flowers; yea, yea, what bliss
     

     

      Sootheth like hope’s fresh scent of loveliness?
     

    

    

     

      Lovely, O nightingale, is thy lament;
     

     

      Ever to listening love thy plaint is dear;
     

     

      In the fond thought of love thy life is spent.
     

    

    

     

      Though in this world joy’s goal is but a name,
     

     

      Fair is thy fadeless hope, blest wanderer,
     

     

      Beauteous its gentle fire & flickering flame.
     

    

    

     

      From the pure lily heard I this clear song:
     

     

      ‘Happy their peaceful life who work no wrong;
     

    

    

     

      Sweet idle flowers, whom heav’n’s sweet airs do kiss;
     

     

      No conqu’ring king hath joy more fair than this.’
     

    

   

  

  

   

    35
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Thus spake at dawn to the fresh-open’d rose
     

     

      The courting-bird, ‘Cease thy so empty vaunt:
     

     

      Comelier than thou full many each day unclose.’
     

    

    

     

      She laughed:—‘In truth I care not, ne’ertheless
     

     

      Strange lover thou, to use such harsh address:
     

     

      No gallant vexeth beauty with such taunt.
     

    

    

     

      Or ever thou receive this ruby red,
     

     

      This wine, first must thy pearl’d disdainfulness
     

     

      In passion’s suppliant sea its jewels shed.’
     

    

    

     

      O vain it were love’s chanting voice to chide!
     

     

      Though may no tongue those burning thoughts expound,
     

     

      The ardent fire of love no heart can hide.
     

    

    

     

      In his all-whelming tears hath Hafez drowned
     

     

      Wisdom & patience, yet no peace hath found.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    36
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Though beauty’s tress be strayed, ’tis beauteous still:
     

     

      Though her bright glance should wander, though it err
     

     

      & wound me, it shall be forgiven her;
     

     

      Yea, lov’d is the Belovéd though she kill.
     

    

    

     

      Though should love’s light’ning ravage & consume
     

     

      Faith’s harvest, & the garner of the wise,
     

     

      Reproach not nor upbraid her: those bright eyes
     

     

      Have right all to destroy, that all illume.
     

    

    

     

      Betwixt love’s roses should no sharpness be:
     

     

      Though not uncruel, not unblameworthy
     

     

      Wast thou, O sweet Love, blame thou only my
     

     

      Blemish, let not remorse endolour thee.
     

    

    

     

      Yea, censure not afflicting love: thy part
     

     

      Is but forgiveness, O long-patient heart!
     

    

   

  

  

   

    37
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Arise, O cup-bearer, & bring
     

     

      Fresh wine for our enrapturing!
     

     

      O minstrel, of our sorrow sing—
     

     

      ‘O joy of whose delight we dreamed,
     

     

      O love that erst so easy seemed,
     

     

      What toil is in thy travelling!’
     

    

    

     

      How in the lov’d one’s tent can I
     

     

      Have any rest or gaiety?
     

     

      Ever anon the horsemen cry,
     

     

      ‘O lingering lover, fare thee well!’
     

     

      Ever I hear the jingling bell
     

     

      Of waiting steed & harnessry.
     

    

    

     

      O seeker who wouldst surely bring
     

     

      To happy end thy wandering,
     

     

      O learner who wouldst truly know,
     

     

      Let not earth’s loves arrest thee. Go!
     

     

      Mad thee with heaven’s pure wine & fling
     

     

      To those clear skies thy rapturing.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    38
   

  

  

   

    

     

      Our toil is He, & eke our journey’s end;
     

     

      Our life-long ailment & our remedy,
     

     

      Our foeman & our ever-pitying friend;
     

    

    

     

      Who is more vanquishing than victory,
     

     

      Fairer than beauty, more belov’d than life;
     

     

      This is he who our peace is & our strife.
     

    

    

     

      Our strenuous earth is He & eke our Heaven,
     

     

      The crown of conquest & the armour riven,
     

     

      The strength, the struggle, yea, the failing even.
     

    

    

     

      Of Him all is, & unto Him also
     

     

      Doth all return: torment & yearning woe
     

     

      Surely shall pass, even as pleasures go.
     

    

    

     

      Yea, all have end, beggar & bountied king,
     

     

      Rapture & tears, resting & wandering.
     

    

   

  

  

   

    INDEX OF FIRST LINES
   

  

  

   
    

     
     
     
      NO.
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      When sunlight faileth
     
     
      
       1
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      I called to fading day
     
     
      
       2
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      O youth’s young cloudlet, O freshness free
     
     
      
       3
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Wend I, wander I, past all worlds that be
     
     
      
       4
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Eyes that o’er the landscape fly
     
     
      
       5
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      O what availeth thee thy melting mood
     
     
      
       6
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      All things born to break
     
     
      
       7
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      If there be any power in passion’s prayer
     
     
      
       8
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      In love’s great ocean, whose calm-shelter’d shore
     
     
      
       9
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      When sorrow hath outsoar’d our nature’s clime
     
     
      
       10
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      O gentle weariness
     
     
      
       11
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Peace, for whose presence we did erewhile call
     
     
      
       12
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Beauty is a waving tree
     
     
      
       13
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Wheresoever beauty flies
     
     
      
       14
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      When first to earth thy gentle spirit came
     
     
      
       15
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      For sake of these two splendours do the wise
     
     
      
       16
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      She hath not beauty, that ill-fortun’d gem
     
     
      
       17
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      When thou art gone, & when are gone all those
     
     
      
       18
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Play thou on men as on a harp’s string
     
     
      
       19
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Go, book: go, vessel laden with the mind
     
     
      
       20
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      When the strong climber his last mountain-crest
     
     
      
       21
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Since neither man’s proud pomp & kingly name
     
     
      
       22
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Pureness of pale moon, loneness of far skies
     
     
      
       23
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      
       After Hafez
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      I saw fair Fortune, one clear morning, touch
     
     
      
       24
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Come let us drink & deeply drown
     
     
      
       25
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Once more, O happy hill & peaceful plain
     
     
      
       26
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Tell me not, mournful Preacher, that to prize
     
     
      
       27
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      What madness ’twas, I know not, that thus enchanted me
     
     
      
       28
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      She went.—O whither too, O one true love
     
     
      
       29
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      I said, ‘O heavenly Leader, O truth’s day
     
     
      
       30
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Where is the pious doer? & I the estray’d one, where?
     
     
      
       31
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      I said, ‘Thou knowest, O all-knowing Friend
     
     
      
       32
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      My heart the chamber of His musing is
     
     
      
       33
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Fair is the leisure of life’s garden-ground
     
     
      
       34
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Thus spake at dawn to the fresh-open’d rose
     
     
      
       35
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Though beauty’s tress be strayed, ’tis beauteous still
     
     
      
       36
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Arise, O cup-bearer, & bring
     
     
      
       37
      
     
     
     
    

    

     
     
     
     
    

    

     
      Our toil is He, & eke our journey’s end
     
     
      
       38