Ghazal 073 from Divan of Hafez

There’s no glance that isn’t brightened by your radiant face,
No eye that isn’t grateful for the dust of your threshold.

Those who gaze upon your face are indeed insightful,
But the secret of your tresses is in no one else's head.

If my tear of sorrow turns red, what wonder is that?
Ashamed of my own deed, there is no curtain to draw.

Until a speck of dust from its breeze settles on my skirt,
There is no passing glance that doesn’t stir a storm in my sight.

Until every place doesn’t speak of the dusk of your locks,
I have heard from the morning breeze that there is no dawn.

I am distressed by this turbulent fate, or else,
No one else would benefit from your neighborhood.

From the shyness of your sweet lips, O fountain of nectar,
Now there is no sugar left, drowned in water and sweat.

It is not wise for the secret to be revealed from behind the curtain,
Or else, there would be no news in the gathering of revelers.

A lion becomes a fox in the desert of your love,
Alas, this path where there is no danger.

The water of my eye, which is grateful for the dust of your threshold,
Under a hundred favors of yours, is not dust of a threshold.

There is a little name and trace of existence in me,
Or else, there would be no trace of weakness there.

Other than this fact that Hafez is displeased with you,
There is no art in all of your being.