Classic Poem

Thou, upon whose lip the salt-right Hath my wounded heart, with me
Look thou keep the pact of friendship; For I go; and God with thee,

Thou pure soul, for whose well-being, In the spiritual world,
Prayer the sum is and the purport Of the angels' psalmody!

If thou doubt of my sincereness, Put me to the proof. By nought
Like the touchstone, folk the fineness Of pure gold avail to see.

Thou didst say, “I will be drunken And will give thee kisses twain.”
Past the limit is; but neither Two nor one beheld have we.

Ope thy smiling mouth's pistachio And thy speech's sugar strew:
Let the folk no longer doubtful Of thy mouth's existence be.

Not the man am I oppression From the firmament to bear;
Topsy-turvy will I set it, If it turn not to my gree.

Since thou lettest not the Loved One To her Hafiz, at the least,
Farther from her side betake thee, Watcher, paces two or three.