Classic Poem

The apple of mine eye of nought Regardful but thy face is;
My frenzied heart of nothing else Is mindful but thy graces.

Mine eye hath donned the pilgrim-wede, Thy sanctuary to compass;
Though of the wounded heart's blood it No moment pure of trace is.

Blame not the bankrupt lover, who No current coin possesseth,
If what he streweth at thy feet His heart's mere metal base is.

His hand and his alone shall win To that thy lofty cypress,
Whose magnanimity, in fine, Sufficient for the chase is.

Of Jesus's life-giving might To thee no word I'll utter,
Since he in soul-augmenting was Less skilled than thine embrace is.

I that in passion's fire for thee Heave not a sigh, can any
Say that my heart unpatient, 'neath The brand of Time's disgrace, is?

Wild-fowl like, prisoned in a cage The Bird of Heaven's Lote-tree
Be, if he fly not down, in quest Of thee, from Heav'n's high places!

Quoth I, what time I, at the first, Espied thy mazy tresses,
“No end to their entanglement, Whose hearts these chains enlace, is!”

The longing for thy bonds is not To Hafiz' heart peculiar:
Where is the heart of man alive, Indeed, but in like case is?