Ode 365

WHENEVER I of the Beloved sing,

So subtle and so sweet becomes my tongue,

Astonishment I see on every face

To hear the milk and honey of my song.

“From Heaven it came, and from no other place,”

Sometimes I hear them softly whispering,

“That speech as plenteous as camel's milk

When evening gathers in the swollen herds.”

So from the pent-up udder of my heart

Rushes this milk-white cataract of words.

“Ah! when wilt thou have mercy upon me,

When show some kindness to this sorrowing heart!”

“'T is life, not I, that am unkind to thee,”

Answered my love: “Life forces us apart.

Blame not the beauty of a woman's face

For the stupendous wrongs of Time and Space.”

Ah! well did Mensour* on his gibbet sing:

“The priest knows nothing of the things divine.”

None but the lover knoweth anything

Of loving, or of sorrow such as mine.

To a dear friend I gave my heart away—

A saucy quean good to look upon;

But O! the tears I 've wasted since that day

With Noah's flood would bear comparison;

Yet doth her image on my heart remain,

Washed not away by all that bitter rain:

Though nowadays I never see her face,

And am forbidden to approach her door,

Trying in vain all avenues of grace.

Only a little while ago I swore

The hand of HAFIZ was a potent charm

'Gainst evil spirits and the evil eye,

And proffered it to shield her neck from harm;

But she disdained its properties to try.

HAFIZ, methinks, at last thou growest old:

Loving and drinking were so easy once,

A mighty wencher wert thou in thy day,

But now at both thou art a perfect dunce;

Now is thy soul aweary, thy warm blood cold,

And all thy spirit wasted quite away.