Ode 290

WIND of the East, pass by my Loved One's door,

And bring me news of her—ah! bring me news!

This do for Love's and one poor lover's sake;

Do not refuse.

And, Rose, of thee this kindness I implore:

As thy thanksgiving that thou art so fair,

Upon the nightingale some pity take,

And grant his prayer.

Already was I loving thee when thou

Wert but a tender slip of the new moon,

A little naked maiden of the sky,

With silver shoon—

Not the deep-bosomed beauty thou art now:

Ah! how I loved and how companioned thee!

Thou art a woman grown, yet still would I

Thy playmate be.

If thou but love me, I thy name will bear

O'er lonely seas to undiscovered lands;

Beauty, be wise, with gold and silver fill

The poet's hands—

All future time shall dream of what you were:

Such magical endurance hath his breath,

HAFIZ shall keep thy face a flower still

In spite of death.