Ode 227*

THIS house hath been a fairy's dwelling-place;
As the immortals pure from head to feet
Was she who stayed with us a little space,
Then, as was meet,
On her immortal journey went her ways.

So wise was she—yet nothing but a flower;
Only a child—yet all the world to me;
Against the stars what love hath any power!
Or was it she
Went softly in her own appointed hour?

The moon it was that called her, and she went;
In Shiraz I had lived to live with her,
Not knowing she was on an errand bent—
A traveller,
To sojourn for a night, then strike her tent.

How sweet it was on many a summer's day
On the green margin of the stream to lie
With her and the wild rose, and nothing say;
Little knew I
That she was running like the stream away.

That was the sweet of life when, pure and wise,
In her dear neighbourhood I drew my breath;
That was the truth of life—the rest is lies,
Folly and death,
Since toward another land she turned her eyes.

Blame her not, heart, because she left thee so;
The heaven of beauty called her to be queen;
Back to her hidden people must she go,
Behind the screen;
Nor when she will return doth HAFIZ know.