Ode 317

LOVE, thou art fair—as delicate as dew
Upon a rose-leaf thy young freshness is;
Holy with beauty art thou through and through,
And strong in beauty as some stately tower;
A cypress in the fields of paradise
Art thou, Beloved; thy mouth is a closed kiss—
Would I were honey-bee to such a flower!
Happy the man whose grave is in thine eyes!
How dost thou sweeten the surrounding air,
O hallowed creature, with thy virgin spice!
Beloved, thou art fair.

Love, thou art fair; yea, all of thee is sweet;
Thy brow is made of morning, and the grace
Of heaven falls over thee from head to feet;
My future hangs upon thy little mole;
I worship at the down upon thy face,
And only live because I die for thee;
Thou art compact of essences so rare,
To touch thee is my immortality—
Thy body is my soul.

My heart reels with the sweetness of thy hair,—
That sweet thick-lilied garden on thy head,—
And a rose-riot of fancy is my brain,
Sweet thoughts! when were ye on such sweetness fed!

HAFIZ, thy path of love is very plain,
With many a rock and torrent hard beset—
Deserts and dangers all about thy feet,
Death at the end, O faithful heart—and yet,
Because thy pilgrimage is made for her,
Thy lot, as thy Beloved is fair and sweet,
Seems sweet and fair.