LXXXVI

LXXXV

To me love's echo is the sweetest sound
Of all that 'neath this circling Round
Hath stayed.

A beggar am I; yet enamoured of one of cypress mould:
One in whose belt the hand bides only with silver and with gold.

Bring wine! let first the hand of Háfiz
The cheery cup embrace!
Yet only on one condition—
No word beyond this place!