Classic Poem

The bulbul at dawn To the wind of the East his lament made
Of the havoc with him That the face of the rose and her scent made.

My heart all a-bleed With the bloom of that face Love hath rendered
And this my sad breast With the thorn of that rosebed all rent made.

The servant am I Of that lovesome one's soul, who good actions
Her practice, without Dissembling or fraud or ostent, made.

O sweet to her be That breeze of the dawn-tides, which ever
Hath solace for those, Who waken till night is forspent, made!

Of strangers no more I'll plain; for,—however they caused me
Annoy,—on like wise That Friend me to rue, of intent, made.

If aught of the king I hoped, 'twas a fault; from the charmer
The faith which I sought Oppression in her the event made.

On every side aye Have bulbuls enamoured lamented,
Whilst merry at will The wind of the East thereanent made;

Still drew back the veil Of the rose and the vest of the rosebud
Unbuttoned and loosed And the hyacinth's tresses y-sprent made.

Go bear the glad news To the winesellers' quarter that Hafiz
Of abstinence vain And fraud hath resolve to repent made.