Ode 291

SHOW us thy face, and at the same time say:
“Moths of my candle, be prepared to die”;
Parched are our lips with thirst—do not deny
The Water of Life: our heads down on the clay,
In the humility of death laid low,
Decapitated by a glance from thee,
Await the touch of our exulting foe,
When thou shalt brandish them in victory—
Or wilt indeed a little pity show?
And say: “His life was happy—he died for me.”

White silver thy dervish hath not, nor red gold;
Yet scorn him not—his tears pure silver flow,
His wine-red cheeks are redder than any gold;
Ah! they are yellow too—with growing old.

Should the harp fail thee, and all woods that sing,
And aloes wood, indeed, be hard to find,
My heart for incense, my love for fire, I 'll bring:
My body for thy censer was designed.

O come and dance with us, and the rest leave;
Draw from thy head the unbecoming cowl;
If not, O back into thy corner go,
And with the other dervishes go howl.

Draw off thy woollen coat, that Sufi lie,
And draw the red wine in; and straightway spend
Such gold and silver as thou hast lain by
Upon some little silver-bosomed friend.

My Friend! ah yes: fill all the sky with foes,
'Gainst me be heaven and earth and hell allied,
Darken the earth with armies, thick as the rose—
I care not if my Friend is on my side.

Beloved, go not yet, but longer stay;
Here by the singing stream sit down and sing;
Thou fire and water and colour takest away,
Heart's love, and tears, longing and everything.

HAFIZ, the feast make ready; then invite
The Preacher, unto him our gladness show,
And say, as his starved eyes feed on the sight:
“Canst thou again into the pulpit go?”