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.