Still e'er that shrine defiance rears its head, Which rolls in sullen murmurs o'er the dead, That shrine which conquest, as it stems the flood.

Come strew flowers, fair ladies, And lead into her bower our fairest bride, The cynosure of love and beauty here, Who shrines heaven's graces in earth's richest casket.

Háfiz seems poor; But look within, for his breast, Shrining his love, With richest treasure is blest.