Ode 322

SHIRAZ, city of the heart,
God preserve thee!
Pearl of capitals thou art,
Ah! to serve thee.

Ruknabad, of thee I dream,
Fairy river;
Whoso drinks thy running stream
Lives for ever.

Wind that blows from Ispahan,
Whence thy sweetness?
Flowers ran with thee as thou ran
With such fleetness.

Flowers from Jafarabad,
Made of flowers;
Thou for half-way house hast had
Musella's bowers.

Right through Shiraz the path goes
Of perfection;
Anyone in Shiraz knows
Its direction.

Spend not on Egyptian sweets
Shiraz money;
Sweet enough in Shiraz streets
Shiraz honey.

East Wind, hast thou aught to tell
Of my gipsy?
Was she happy? Was she well?
Was she tipsy?

Wake me not, I pray thee, friend,
From my sleeping;
Soon my little dream must end;
Waking 's weeping.

HAFIZ, though his blood she spill,
Right he thinks it;
Like mother's milk 't is his will
That she drinks it.