Ode 8

You little Turk of Shiraz-Town,

Freebooter of the hearts of men,

As beautiful, as says renown,

Are your freebooting Turcomen;

Dear Turco-maid—a plunderer too—

Here is my heart, and there your hand:

If you 'll exchange, I 'll give to you

Bokhara—yes! and Samarcand.

Indeed, I 'd give them for the mole

Upon your cheek, and add thereto

Even my body and my soul.

Come, bearer of the shining cup,

Bring the red grape into the sun,

That we may drink, and drink it up,

Before our little day is done;

For Ruknabad shall run and run,

And each year, punctual as spring,

The new-born nightingale shall sing

Unto Musella's new-born rose;

But we shall not know anything,

Nor laugh, nor weep, nor anywise

Listen or speak, fast closed our eyes

And shut our ears—in Paradise!

You little robber-woman, you

That turn the heads of Shiraz-Town,

With sugar-talk and sugar-walk

And all your little sugar-ways,—

Into the sweet-shop of your eyes

I innocently gaze and gaze,

While, like your brethren of renown,

O little Turk of Shiraz, you

Plunder me of my patience too.

Yet all too well the lover knows

The loved one needs no lover's praise;

What other perfume needs the rose?

Perfection needs no word of ours,

Nor heeds what any song-bird says—

Sufficient unto flowers are flowers.

Nay, give it up! nor try to probe

Secret of her, or any heaven;

It is a most distracting globe—

Seven the stars, our sins are seven;

Above no answer, nor below:

Let's call the Saki—he may know;

Yes, who knows, HE may know.

O love, that was not very kind!

That answer that you gave to me;

Nay, I mistook, you spoke me well!

For you to speak at all to me

Is unforeseen felicity;

Yea, bitter on your lips grows sweet,

And soft your hardest words to me.

Sweetheart, if you would hearken me,

I am a very wise old thing,

And it were wise for you to hear.

My little Turk, my cypress dear,

So wise this wisdom that I sing,

That some day on a shining string

High up in heaven, tear by tear,

As star by star, these songs shall hang

At evening on the vestal sky,

These little songs that HAFIZ sang

To one that heard not on his knees:

So well I sang them—even I—

That, listening to them, Heaven's Lord

Tossed me from heaven as reward

The small change of the Pleiades!—

These little songs that HAFIZ sang

To one that heard not on his knees.