Ode 566

BREEZE of the morning, at the hour thou knowest,
The way thou knowest, and to her thou knowest,
Of lovely secrets trusty messenger,
I beg thee carry this despatch for me;
Command I may not: this is but a prayer
Making appeal unto thy courtesy.

Speak thus, when thou upon my errand goest:
“My soul slips from my hand, so weak am I;
Unless thou heal it by the way thou knowest,
Balm of a certain ruby, I must die.”

Say further, sweetheart wind, when thus thou blowest:
“What but thy little girdle of woven gold
Should the firm centre of my hopes enfold?
Thy legendary waist doth it not hold,
And mystic treasures which thou only knowest?”

Say too: “Thy captive begs that thou bestowest
The boon of thy swift falchion in his heart;
As men for water thirst he to depart
By the most speedy way of death thou knowest.

“I beg thee that to no one else thou showest
These words I send—in such a hidden way
That none but thou may cipher what I say;
Read them in some safe place as best thou knowest.”

When in her heart these words of mine thou sowest
For HAFIZ, speak in any tongue thou knowest;
Turkish and Arabic in love are one—
Love speaks all languages beneath the sun.