Classic Poem

Since into the hand of the breeze the end Of thy tress again hath fallen,
The heart of the passion-stricken one For grief in twain hath fallen.

Thy sorcerer eye's the first compend And draft of th'art of magic;
Yet such is this copy, in default That it, 'tis plain, hath fallen.

In the curve of thy ringlet, knowest thou, What yonder swarthy mole is?
An inkspot, that into the round of a J, Like a musky grain, hath fallen.

Thy musky tress, in the rosegarden Of the Paradise of thy visage,
What is it? A peacock, that in the meads Of Heav'n's domain hath fallen.

My heart, for desire of thy scent, indeed, O Solacer of spirits,
A dust-grain is, that at foot of the breeze, From highway ta'en, hath fallen.

Alack that this earthy body mine Cannot, like dust, rise upward
From th'end of thy quarter; forasmuch It hard amain hath fallen!

The shade of thy cypress-shape on me, O thou, the Jesus-breathed one,
As Spirit of God on rotten bones Of dead and slain, hath fallen.

I've seen, whom nought but the Kaabeh erst Might serve for place of session,
When prone at the winehouse-door, in thought Of thy lip, he fain hath fallen.

For thee, on the Day of the Primal Pact, O dear and precious spirit,
Union 'twixt Hafiz the love-distraught And grief and pain hath fallen.