Classic Poem

Hands we lift anights to heaven, So a prayer that we may make,
So the sorrow of thy sev'rance Shift to bear that we may make.

Sped my sick heart is: friends, help me! To its bed head bring the leach,
So provision for assaining Its affair that we may make.

She, without my fault, who smote me With the sword of wrath and went,
Bring her back, so peace, 'fore heaven, With the fair that we may make.

Heart, from topers' hearts some succour Seek; or hard Love's case will be:
God forfend mistake in seeking Succour there that we may make.

'Gainst the lusts, whereby our bosom Is an idol-temple grown,
Sighs let's launch for shafts; make ready, War thereon that we may make!

Withered is the root of joyance: To the winehouse where's the way,
Growth and blossom in that water And that air that we may make?

No effect for good the shadow Of the mean bird hath: arise,
To the blesséd Huma's shadow Our repair that we may make?

Forth the screen my heart hath issued: Where is Hafiz, sweet of speech,
Solace with his chants and ditties For our care that we may make?