Classic Poem

Come is the festal season, With friends and roses late:
See, in the King's face, skinker, The moon; and wine bring straight.

Hope of the rose's season Had I renounced; but, lo!
A miracle the topers' Fast-keeping did create.

Set on the world thy heart not; Nay, but the winebibbers
Ask of the beaker's bounty And of Jemshíd's estate

Save the soul's coin, I've nothing In hand. Where, where is wine,
That to the skinker's glances Withal I may oblate?

What if the foredawn meal-tide Be past? The dawn-cup's left.
Let seekers of the Loved One With wine the fast abate.

I fear the toper's patchcoat And the Sheikh's rosary
Will, on the Day of Rising, Go rein by rein for weight.

Goodly the Sultan's sway is And he a bounteous king.
O Lord our God, preserve him From the ill eye of Fate!

Drink wine to the slave's verses; For to these royal pearls
New charm thy jewelled goblet Will e'en communicate.

Since that thy bounteous nature A blemish-screener is,
Forgive our heart a coinage That's under current rate.

Since, Hafiz, gone the Fast is And on the go the rose,
Drink wine, for the occasion Eftsoon will be a-gate.