Classic Poem

The curve of thy tress Of faith and unfaith the snare is;
And this but a jot Of the wildering craft of thy hair is.

Thy loveliness, sure, The miracle is of all beauty;
The tale of thy glance Sheer magic and sorcery bare is.

Thy lips still renew The miracles wroughten of Jesus;
The tale of thy locks The Rope of the Steadfast, I swear, is

On yonder black eye Be blessings an hundred! In slaying
Of lovers for it A sorcerer passing compare is.

This star-lore of Love, Wherein is the uppermost heaven
As nethermost earth, A marvellous lore and a rare is!

Think not that by death The speaker of ill his soul saveth;
With “Two August Scribes” His account in the end of th' affair is.

The soul from thine eye, The wanton, can any deliver,
That ambushed in wait, With the bow of the eyebrow, fore'er is?

From the craft of her tress, O Hafiz, sit not in assurance;
Thy heart it hath ta'en And thy faith now intent to ensnare is.

In Time unbegun, A draught from Love's goblet drank Hafiz;
His drunkenness all And his toping unending from there is.

With constancy, heart, Like Hafiz, bear thou her caprices;
The lovelings 'caprice, Like themselves, ever lovesome and fair is.