I dreamt, about the morning hours,
That in a field of scented flowers,
By Rocknabad’s cool flow,
I saw Ferangis go
Swift by me like a dream of spring;
And I, whose heart was hot to fling
Myself before my dear,
Stood full of silent fear.
And then I dreamt she came to lay
Softly her hand in mine and say,
‘Hafiz, you yet shall know
How happy is your woe;
For what gift can the silent years
Offer so precious as these tears,
And memory of the ache
Your heart had for my sake?’
Then, seeming stirred by pitying thought
Of all the joy I vainly sought,
You gave your hand to kiss,
Saying, ‘Remember this
When you and I are grey and old,
When all this fiery love is cold,
And, honouring lost delight,
Keep your soul’s whiteness white.’
I had no power to speak or move;
Slowly the image of my love
Faded before my eyes
Like light from summer skies.
I wake and find Ferangis gone,
Yet scarce believe I am alone;
One minute since my hand
Had touched her where I stand.
I read of men whom love made mad
In antique legends, softly sad
As wind is after rain.
I weep for Saadi’s pain,
And stir the dust that lies above
Long shelves of poets crossed in love,
To gain from their disgrace
Some comfort for my case.
I find fit voices for my grief
In many a buried poet’s leaf;
But, ah! what ancient song
Contains a charm so strong
That it shall make your heart confess
You love me, neither more or less?
Which learning, surely I
Might be content to die.
And yet, when I reflect how fair
Those almond eyes and sable hair
And gracious body are,
I cry, ‘Out of my star
Such beauty is;’ I am as one
Who dreams of kingdoms till the sun
Warns, if he would be fed,
To rise and beg his bread.
Soft voices whisper in my ears,
‘What girl deserves the grace of tears?’
Courage! the world is wide;
Life’s best is to be tried.
If this love fail, fresh loves await;
The reddest roses blossom late.
Have you not passed before
Out of love’s curtained door?