Classic Poem

Rail not at the topers, zealot Clean-created, rind and core:
Well I wot, the sins of others Not against thee will They score.

Be I good or be I evil, Go, concern thee for thyself!
For, in fine, what each man soweth, That he reapeth and no more.

Seek thou not to make me hopeless Of His wrath-forestalling grace!
How know'st thou what foul, what fair is, Once behind yon shrouded door?

Be they sober, be they drunken, All are seekers of the Friend;
Every place the abode of Love is, Mosque or temple, sea or shore.

From the sanctuary of virtue Fallen not alone am I;
From his hand my father Adam Paradise let go of yore.

Still the head of our submission To the tavern dust shall cleave.
If thou take my sense not, prater, Beat thy head against the floor.

Fair are Paradise's gardens; Yet beware that by the shade
Of the willow and the marges Of the meads thou set no store.

Lean thou not upon endeavour; On the Primeternal Day,
Know'st thou what the Pen Creative 'Gainst thy name wrote heretofore?

If in hand a cup, o Hafiz, In the hour of death, thou hold,
Straight to Heaven, from the quarter Of the winehouse, shalt thou soar.