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Stern ruin's plough-share drives elate
Full on thy bloom, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
THY form has a resistless grace,
Ah, soft enslaver of our minds !
That my fond heart contentment finds.
Mild is thy nature, gentle maid,
In the fresh bow'r of early spring;
Must its own cypress proudly bring!
Thy coyness, which affects to frown, Thy playful sports, thy cheek of down,
And the dear mole that on it lies; Thine eye, thine eye-brow's arch so true, Thy step majestic to the view
All with delight my soul surprise !
The rose-bow'rs of my thoughts, from thee, With paintings and rich broidery,
Colour'd by Fancy's pencil are: 'Tis thine such fragrance to impart, That the recesses of my heart
Breathe perfume from thy jasmine hair.
In Love's perplexing path, I know,
Man never yet found safe retreat;
I dare its utmost rage to meet.
What, though before thy face I die, 1 yield me to my destiny;
I feel not Sorrow's painful wound: I look upon thy glowing cheek ; And the sole blessing that I seek
Is in thy matchless beauty found.
In quest of thee, though to my sight Oppressive toil, and wild affright,
The desert of research present, Expecting he may find thee there, Still Hafez, unsubdued by care,
Keeps on his weary way content.
My lovely girl, I write for you,
What is that vice which still prevails, When almost ev'ry passion fails ;