In his youth Hāfiz sang freely of love and wine, and his verse upon these themes too often betrayed a coarse sentiment, for it seems impossible for some bards to appreciate the perfect purity of honest affection. Of his love songs the following is the best: THE FEAST OF SPRING. “My breast is filled with roses, My cup is crowned with wine, And the veil her face discloses— The maid I hail as mine. The monarch, wheresoe’er he be, Is but a slave compared to me. Their glare no torches throwing, Shall in our bower be found— Her eyes, like moonbeams glowing, Cast light enough around; And other odors I can spare Who scent the perfume of her hair. The honey-dew thy charm might borrow Thy lip alone to me is sweet; When thou art absent, faint with sorrow I hide me in some lone retreat. Why talk to me of power or fame? What are those idle toys to me? Why ask the praises of my name, My joy, my triumph is in thee. How blest am I! around me swelling The notes of melody arise! I hold the cup with wine excelling, And gaze upon thy radiant eyes, Oh Hāfiz—never waste thy hours Without the cup, the lute, and love For ’tis the sweetest time of flowers And none these moments shall reprove. The nightingales around thee sing It is the joyous feast of spring.” As Hāfiz grew older he became attached to the Sufi[276] philosophy, and his poetry contained so many figurative allusions that the Mussulmans called his productions “the language of mystery,” others claim that even his most sensual poems are figurative and should be thus interpreted. Of his graver poems the following is the best: MY BIRD. “My soul is as a sacred bird, the highest heaven its nest, Fretting within its body-bars, it finds on earth its nest; When rising from its dusty heap this bird of mine shall soar ’Twill find upon the lofty gate the nest it had before. The Sidrah,[277] shall receive my bird, when it has winged its way, And on the Empyrean’s top, my falcon’s foot shall stay, Over the ample field of earth is fortune’s shadow cast, Where upon wings and pennons borne this bird of mine has past. No spot in the two worlds it owns, above the sphere its goal, Its body from the quarry is, from “No Place” is its soul. ’Tis only in the glorious world my bird its splendor shows, The rosy bowers of Paradise its daily food bestows.[278]