O Zephyr, you carry the fragrance of that musk-scented hair,

May you remain as a keepsake, for you possess his scent.

My heart, which holds the jewel of the secrets of beauty and love within it,

Can be entrusted to your hand if you will keep it well.

About that pleasing appearance, nothing can be said,

Except this much: that you have ill-tempered rivals.

Where will the nightingale's song find favor, O rose,

When you lend your ear and mind to frivolous birds?

My head became intoxicated by a sip from you; may it be blissful,

From which cask is this that you have in the jug?

Do not boast of your loftiness, O cypress of the stream,

For if you were to reach him, you would lower your head in shame.

To speak of the realms of beauty like the sun,

Is fitting for you, for you have moon-faced servants.

The robe of selling beauty suits you and you alone,

For like a flower, you possess all the customs of color and fragrance.

Do not seek the jewel of love in the corner of the hermitage, Hafez,

Step out if you have a desire for searching.