Classic Poem

My soul, for poortith's load, in sorry case is;
I am ashamed before the lovelings' faces.

Except some chain-haired maid on me take pity,
I shall go mad without the fair's embraces.

Of the Sphere's motions ask mine eye; for nightly
I count the stars, till daybreak them effaces.

I kiss the goblet's lip; for by its magic
The secret known to me of Time and Space is.

Much thanks to heav'n I render that no puissance
In this mine arm to vex the human race is.

If for the wine-seller I pray, what matter?
I do but pay the debit of his graces.

Thou wilt not raise me from the dust of sorrow,
Although mine eyes rain pearls in teardrops' places.

Me for blood-drinking in this desert blame not;
My teacher for the musk-deer of the chase is.

Crack-brained as Hafiz is, upon the favour
Of yonder gen'rous one his hopes he bases.