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.