Classic Poem

'Twas a bulbul drank his heart's blood And a rose his own made;
Jealous fortune's blast with hundred Thorns his heart to groan made.

Sugar hoping, joyed a parrot: but perdition's torrent
Hope's charactery, effacing, As't had ne'er been known made.

Still remembered be that solace Of mine eyes, my heart's fruit!
Easy fled he and uneasy This my lot, when flown, made.

Cameleer, my load is fallen: Help me! For the journey
With this litter, I, relying On thy grace alone, made.

Scorn my dropping eyes and dusty Face not; for its pleasaunce
Of this straw-and-mud hath yonder Heaven's azure zone made.

Woe that, for the eye invidious Of the moon of heaven,
Hath my bow-browed moon his dwelling 'Neath the graveyard stone made!

Hafiz, thou forgot'st to castle And th'occasion past is.
Yet what help? Me Fortune's juggle Heedless of mine own made.