Classic Poem

Hand from skirt no more I'll sever Of yon cypress tall and straight,
Root and stem, that hath up-torn me With her proudly swaying gait.

There's no need of wine and minstrel. Lift thy face-veil, so the fire
Of thy cheek to dancing bring me, Rue-seed like on chafing-plate.

Save their faces, on the horsehoofs Of my fair who rub their cheeks,
None is meet to be the mirror Of the face of happy Fate.

Come what may, I've told the secret Of my sorrow for thy sake.
What's to do? I'm out of patience. How much longer shall I wait?

Slay not that my musk-deer fawnling, Hunter! Prithee, have thou shame
Of her night-black eye nor bind her With thy lasso long and strait.

I, a grain of dust, that cannot Lift my head from off this sill,
How shall I avail for kissing Yonder lofty palace-gate.

Hafiz' fresh and heart-alluring Songs when in Khujénd they hear,
Though Kemál's it were, none other Worth the utterance they rate.

From those musky ringlets, Hafiz, Take thou not thy heart; God wot,
For a madman, to be fettered Ever was the better state.

Hafiz' heart hath no inclining, Save unto that tress of thine.
Out upon it! Bonds an hundred Have not made it more sedate.