This house hath been a fairy’s dwelling-place;
as the immortals pure from head to feet
was she who stayed with us a little space,
then, as was meet,
on her immortal journey went her ways.
So wise was she, yet nothing but a flower;
only a child, yet all the world to me;
against the stars what love has any power!
or was it she
went softly in her own appointed hour?
The moon it was that called her, and she went;
in Shiraz I had lived to live with her,
not knowing she was on an errand bent,
to sojourn for a night, then strike her tent.
How sweet it was on many a summer’s day
on the green margin of the stream to lie
with her and the wild rose, and nothing say.
little knew I
that she was running like the stream away.
That was the sweet of life when, pure and wise,
in her dear neighbourhood I drew my breath;
that was the truth of life, the rest is lies,
folly and death,
since toward another land she turned her eyes.
Blame her not, heart, because she left you so;
the heaven of beauty called her to be queen;
back to her hidden people must she go,
behind the screen,
nor when she will return does Hafiz know.