Classic Poem

If again my footsteps Fortune To the Magians' temple bore,
Prayer-rug would I pledge and patchcoat Straight, to pay the tavern-score.

If the knocker of repentance, Zealot-like, to day I ply,
Sure, the taverner to-morrow Will not open me the door;

And if aught of freedom, moth-like, Be vouchsafed to me of wing,
Round that candle-cheek I'll flutter, As I fluttered heretofore.

If my heart with an embracement, Harp-like, thou wilt not content,
With thy lips caress me, pipe-like, For a moment, if no more.

With the Houris to foregather Never wished I; for 'twere sin
That with others he should cómmerce Who at heart thine image wore.

Since for me no bosom-friend is, Save the sword of grief for thee,
Unto none the case I utter Of my heart that's drowned in gore.

Had my wet-skirt eye not public Made the secret of my love,
In my heart it had abidden, Hidden in its inmost core.

From this cage of clay, a dweller Of the air, bird-like, I'm grown;
So belike that royal falcon, Make of me a prize of war.

If a head on Hafiz' body Were for every hair thereof,
All and sev'ral, like thy tresses, Would I cast thy feet before.