Ode 147

BEAUTY alone will not account for her;
No single attribute her charm explains;
Though each be named, beyond it glimmers she,
Strangely distinct, mysteriously fair:
Hers this, this hers, and this—yet she remains.
Wonderful are her locks—she is not there;
Her body a spirit is—it is not she;
Her waist the compass of a silken thread;
Her mouth a ruby—but it is not she:
Say all of her, yet hast thou nothing said.
Surely the beauty of houri or of fay
A fashion of beauty is—but to my eye
Her way of beauty is beauty's only way

Unto this spring, sweet rose, pray draw anigh;
Sweet water 't is—my tears—to water thee.

Thine eye, ah! what an arrow! thine eyebrow,
How strong a bow! and what an archer thou!
Ah! what a target hast thou made of me.
Love's secret verily no one man knows,
Though each in lore of loving deems him wise;
Love 's like a meadow all aflower with spring,
But in the shadow autumn waiting lies,
And the wise bird is half afraid to sing—
A vanished song unto a vanished rose.

HAFIZ, a power strange to touch the heart

Of late hath stolen subtly in thy song,
Through thy firm reed unwonted pathos blows;
Her praise it is, and no new touch of art,
That gives this grace of tears unto thy song.