Classic Poem

Though her sword slay me, ne'er my hand shall break it;
Yea, if she shoot me, as a boon I take it.

Bid our bow-browed one launch at us the arrow,
So we may die her victims: say, I spake it.

If the world's noyance bear me from my basis,
If the cup take my hand not, who shall take it?

Shine forth, Hope's morning sun; for lo! a captive
Still in the night of severance I wake it.

Help thou mine eld, o Elder of the tavern!
Come thou and young again with one draught make it.

Head at thy foot I've laid and by thy ringlets
Swore I last night that thence I ne'er would take it.

Burn this thy patchcoat of devotion, Hafiz,
Lest my fire catch thereon and none should slake it.