Ode 176

COMFORT thee, heart—this much at least is true:

Nothing forever lasts, and this thy pain,

Even as thy joy is gone, will leave thee too;

Nothing remain

Of all this grief that is so near and new.

Though as the wayside dust to her art thou,

Cherish not envy of thy rival's state:

'T will some day be with him as with thee now;

None to be great

More than a moment the high gods allow.

The brightest candle only shines till day

Puts out the stars and candles of the night;

Be happy, little moth; burn whilst thou may:

Her little light,

Ere thou art ashes, will have quenched its ray.

The Angel Gabriel and the lute's soft strings

Alike have told me—nothing will abide:

In Jamshid's hall, at his high banquetings,

Aloud they cried:

“Jamshid himself must die, though king of kings!”

What though thy lot be bitter as the sea,

Make no complaint; or, be thy fortune fair,

Give thou no thanks—soon both alike will be;

And wherefore care

What on life's page is writ—for who shall see?

In gold upon the mansion of the sky

The stars write this last word for us below:

“The good deeds of kind hearts will never die;

All else will go

With the spent candle and the butterfly.”

HAFIZ, rejoice—look where at yonder door

Stands the strange angel with his falchion drawn;

Death is he now—his name was Life before:

They fear not dawn

Whom his hand smites, and their hearts ache no more.