Ode 49

Now that the rose-tree in its dainty hand

Lifts high its brimming cup of blood-red wine,

And green buds thicken o'er the empty land,

Heart, leave these speculations deep of thine,

And seek the grassy wilderness with me.

Who cares for problems, human or divine!

The dew of morning glitters like a sea,

And hearken how yon happy nightingale

Tells with his hundred thousand new-found tongues

Over again the old attractive tale.

Yea, close thy books; let schools and schoolmen be;

Only a little lazy book of songs

Snatch up, and take the long green road with me.

Men left behind us, like that fabled bird

Anca, that dwells in Caucasus alone,

Remote from footfall, secure from human word,

We ask no company except our own:

For we are deep in love with solitude,

And green-leaved peace, and wildwood pondering—

Yea, even Love itself would here intrude;

HAFIZ would be alone with the sweet spring,

HAFIZ would be alone with his sweet song.

Of the immortal lonely ones is he

Whom solitude and silence have made strong.

Therefore, he laughs at rivals such as ye

Who think to match his inaccessible fame;

Yea, ye remind him, poor presumptuous fools,

Of that rush-weaver of the olden time

Who to the shop of a great goldsmith came:

Said he: “I too an artist am—for tools

Also I use, and keep a shop the same.”

Yea, ye too keep your little shop of rhyme!