Ode 2

O LOVE, the beauty of the moon is thine,

And on thy chin a little star doth shine,

The jewel-dimple of thy little chin;

O how my soul desires the sight of thee,

And rushes to the windows of my eyes,

And to and fro about my body flies,

Half out of doors and half constrained within;

Ears all atremble for some word of thine,

Tongue tip-toe on the threshold of the lip,

And my full heart is like a stormy sea.

If only thou wouldst scatter on the breeze

A handful of the roses of thy cheek,

The faithful breeze would bring them safe to me;

Thy garden would not miss them from its trees,

And I would seem a little nearer thee—

Rose-garden of the neighbourhood of thee.

O lips of sugar, would that it were mine

Upon those paradisal lips to feed!—

Hark! the presumptous fellow, how he sings!—

HAFIZ—how canst thou hope that she will heed,

And say Amen to such a prayer as thine?

Such lips are the predestined food of Kings.