To Hafiz

Though gifts like thine the fates gave not to me, One thing, O Hafiz, we both hold in fee— Nay, it holds us; for when the June wind blows We both are slaves and lovers to the rose. In vain the pale Circassian lily shows Her face at her green lattice, and in vain The violet beckons, with unveilëd face— The bosom’s white, the lip’s light purple stain, These touch our liking, yet no passion stir. But when the rose comes, Hafiz—in that place Where she stands smiling, we kneel down to her!