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.