Withal a man, despite his boisterous gladsomeness and his overflowing joy in what the present has to offer, in whom there is nothing common, nothing low.

I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: 405 The sympathies erewhile in part discharged, Gather afresh, and will have vent again: My own delights do scarcely seem to me My own delights; the lordly Alps themselves, Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks 410 Abroad on many nations, are no more For me that image of pure gladsomeness Which they were wont to be.

It is this that makes Háfiz almost the only poet of unadulterated gladsomeness that the world has ever known.