Ode 254

WHAT a musician is that rascal Love!
How out of wood and some six silly strings
Contrives he the very stones and trees to move;
And when he sings,
You hear the lonely stars listening above.

'T were a sad world without a lover's voice;
Their lamentations are as sweet as birds;
And, when the little creatures do rejoice,
What pretty words
The dictionary yields up to their choice!

O love, continue to sustain the pride
Of this poor fly that dares to worship thee;
Mere hopeless love hath him so magnified,
That seemeth he
A Bird of Paradise all rainbow-dyed.

No one could blame a king who, when he goes
Abroad, finding forever falling from his sun
The shadow of some beggar, angry grows:
So do I run
Beside the rose, the shadow of the rose.

Unto the leech I took my bloody tears:
“What ails me, doctor?” unto him said I.
“T is love,” said he, “and it may last for years—
Yea, some men die;
But, borne with patience, it sometimes disappears.”

HAFIZ, take heart; Love is a grievous lord;
But this will always be the lover's creed,
Under the very shadow of Love's sword:
No gentle deed,
And no sweet action fails of its reward.