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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Abdul Hafiz," said Ram Lal, as we sat round the fire we had made, preparing food, "if it is thy pleasure I will conduct thy friend to a place of safety and set his feet in the paths that lead to pleasant places. For thou art weary and wilt take thy rest until noon, but I am not weary and the limbs of the Afghan are as iron." He spoke in Persian, so that Shere Ali could understand what he said.
Her beauty owed not its peculiar charm to any regularity of feature; but to an ineffable sweetness of expression, and to youth's freshest bloom. Hafiz would have compared that smooth cheek to the tulip's flower. Her eye-lashes, of the deepest jet, and silken gloss, were of uncommon length. Her lips were apart, and disclosed small but exquisitely formed teeth.
In silence he made his decision, and Cynthia Clarke knew it. The darkness covered them. Down below in the Villa Hafiz Jimmy was sleeping peacefully, tired by the long ride to and from the forest in the heat. He had gone to bed very early, almost directly after dinner. His mother had not advised this.
"You are Muley Hafiz, aren't you?" she asked, and he turned his head. "I've read a great deal about you," she added, though in truth she had read nothing. He laughed, showing two rows of perfect white teeth. It was only by contrast with their whiteness that she noticed the golden brown of his complexion. "I am of international interest," he said lightly and glanced round toward his attendants.
"You don't expect our public schools to abandon the Aeneid and Homer, because they don't consider the old mythologies accurate history. You don't expect to give up the best of Hafiz and Omar, because you also come in contact with the worst of them. We'd be poorer, all our lives, by just so much.
"On one of my jobs a show job, attendance on a distinguished visitor, don't you know I was thrown a great deal into the company of a Persian gentleman, and we did our best to learn something of each other's languages. He taught me out of Hafiz, and I picked up just enough to make me wish for more. Listen to this." He recited to me one of the shorter poems from the Divan.
She was. She knew she was. But she looked so charming, a petal of spring, a quick incarnation of pink may and forget-me-not and laburnum, that I put down my pen and I smiled. "You are, my dear," said I, "but it doesn't matter." "What are you doing?" She remained on the threshold. "I am writing my presidential address," said I, "for the Grand Meeting, next month, of the Hafiz Society."
"Well, I'm damned!" said he in the rôle of Mr. John Robin Ross-Ellison. "Rum little devil. Fancy your turning up here." And in the rôle of Mir Ilderim Dost Mahommed Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan added in debased Arabic: "Take this money, little dog, and buy thee a tikkut to Kot Ghazi. Get into this train, and at Kot Ghazi follow me to a house." Cornelius Gosling-Green; Mr.
Do you recall that time at Wady Hafiz when a local priest denounced you and a Sheik in a yellow kuffiyi told the crowd that he knew you for a prophet? I am the same Sheik. I liked your pluck. I often wondered what became of you." "Put it here!" said Jeremy, and they shook hands. For twenty minutes after that Hadad and Jeremy swapped reminiscences in quick staccato time.
Now, sure, within this twelvemonth past, I've loved at least some twenty years or more; Th' account of love runs much more fast, Than that with which our life does score: So, though my life be short, yet I may prove, The Great Methusalem of love!!! "Love and Life." Cowley. The odes of Háfiz also, with all their spirit and richness of expression, abound in conceit and extravagant metaphor.
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