Classic Poem

The Festival day to-day is And I've for to-day forecast
To barter for wine and winecup The sum of the four weeks' fast.

'Tis many a day that severed From winecup and wine I am;
And sore is the shame 't hath wrought me Among the toper caste.

No more will I sit secluded, Though zealot and pietist
Of convent and cell and cloister The chain to my foot make fast.

Sage counsel the city preacher Me giveth; but this I know,
That counsel no more from any I'll hearken, as in the past.

Where's he who the ghost gave up in The dust of the tavern-door,
That I, too, may die before him, My head at his feet downcast?

The winecup I drain, with the prayer-mat Of piety shouldered: alack
If conscious of this my imposture The folk should become at last!

“O Hafiz,” the folk say, “hearken The elder!” But more to me
Than hundreds of elders wine is That years in the jar hath past.