Lxxxvii

When beamed Thy beauty on creation's morn, The world was set on fire by love new-born.

Thy cheek shone bright, yet angels' hearts were cold: Then flashed it fire, and turned to Adam's mould.

The lamp of Reason from this flame had burned, But lightning jealousy the world o'erturned.

The enemy Thy secret sought to gain; A hand unseen repelled the beast profane.

The die of Fate may render others glad: My own heart saddens, for its lot is sad.

Thy chin's deep pit allures the lofty mind: The hand would grasp thy locks in twines entwined,

Háfiz his love-scroll To Thyself addressed, When he had cancelled What his heart loved best.