Ode 565

REJOICE, my heart, before the springtime goes
With her fresh laughter;
Soon thou shalt die, and ah! how thick the rose
Shall blossom after.

Only its roots shall crown thy rotting head,
While other youngsters
Its petals on the glossy curls shall shed
Of other songsters;

Thy nostrils with the smell of death be filled—
They smell the roses;
O be thy attar from each rose distilled
Before it closes.

Give ear unto the harp, and wisely heed
What it is saying:
Laugh and be glad; dead thou art dead indeed—
Make no delaying.

What thou shouldst drink I say not, at whose side
Thou shouldst be sitting;
Thou art a man of sense, and canst decide
What is befitting.

Only make haste: each blade of grass you tread,
Clear for thy reading,
Teaches the myriad lessons of the dead;
Be not unheeding.

Give not to worldly cares and wasting thought
Thine hours of pleasure;
The world will take thy all and give thee nought;
Guard well thy treasure.

Strange is our path and dread; whither it goes
There is no knowing;
HAFIZ half thinks that the Beloved knows
Where we are going.