Lady that hast my heart within thy hand, Thou heed’st me not; and if thou turn thine ear Unto the wise, thou shalt not understand— Behold the fault is thine, our words were clear. For all the tumult in my drunken brain Praise God! who trieth not His slave in vain; Nor this world nor the next shall make me fear! My weary heart eternal silence keeps— I know not who has slipped into my heart; Though I am silent, one within me weeps. My soul shall rend the painted veil apart. Where art thou, Minstrel! touch thy saddest strings Till clothed in music such as sorrow sings, My mournful story from thy zither sweeps. Lo, not at any time I lent mine ear To hearken to the glories of the earth; Only thy beauty to mine eyes was dear. Sleep has forsaken me, and from the birth Of night till day I weave bright dreams of thee; Drunk with a hundred nights of revelry, Where is the tavern that sets forth such cheer! My heart, sad hermit, stains the cloister floor With drops of blood, the sweat of anguish dire; Ah, wash me clean, and o’er my body pour Love’s generous wine! the worshippers of fire Have bowed them down and magnified my name, For in my heart there burns a living flame, Transpiercing Death’s impenetrable door. What instrument through last night’s silence rang? My life into his lay the minstrel wove, And filled my brain with the sweet song he sang. It was the proclamation of thy love That shook the strings of Life’s most secret lyre, And still my breast heaves with last night’s desire, For countless echoes from that music sprang. And ever, since the time that Hafiz heard His Lady’s voice, as from a rocky hill Reverberates the softly spoken word, So echoes of desire his bosom fill.

The work and its creator

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Creator: Hafiz
Nationality / cultural background: Iranian · Persian
Work / edition: 1897 translation

Translation: Gertrude Bell · English

Historical public-domain text. Selected passage; line-end whitespace normalised. No generated quotation.

In the source: XIII

Selected for the Brief on 5 Oct 2026. This date records our selection, rather than when the work was created.