Classic Poem

If God upon every mortal Should visit every sin,
The world were a waste of wailing And Time were all chagrin.

The Lord whiles pardoneth mountains, Whiles fescues punisheth;
Alike in the sight of the Maker Are mount and fescuekin

Man of world-wide transgression, Knowest thou not that the moon
In heaven eclipse doth suffer For malison of sin?

Pure is thy skirt, o Soufi; But plain thy sins shall be
To morrow, when justice-seekers Cling to thy gaberdine

Of shame for my sins and sorrow All night with floods of tears
I'll weep, till my place of kneeling With green to sprout begin.

At leave-taking time, such torrents I'll weep that my tears the way
Shall stop on the Friend, whatever The land that she fareth in.

When, Hafiz, the Sultan willeth The death of a man, what wight,
How bold though he be and puissant, To hinder his hand may win?