Ode 495

STRANGE heart, the way is open—yet thy feet
Will take it not; 't is but for thee to go
In any hour to the Beloved's Street,
And say: “I know
That thou art mine. I take thee, as is meet.”

The game is thine, if only thou wouldst play
This polo of the heart; luck, like a mall,
Is in thine hand; thou makest no assay
To strike the ball;
Thou holdest back thy falcon from its prey.

This red blood in thy veins that idly flows,
Why dost thou use it not to dye her cheeks
With crimson of her love's surrendered rose!
Thou art too meek—
Such hesitation like a coward shows.

How canst thou watch such wine untasted sink
Where thou hast spilled it, thankless, in the dust!
Ah! some day, sick for wine, but thou shalt think
How once thou thrust
This willing cup away, and would not drink.

Strange heart of HAFIZ, say what this may mean—
To the Beloved's court the world doth bring
Its homage, and the beauty of thy queen
All others sing:
Absent and silent only hast thou been.