Classic Poem

If I on the dust of the sole Of the foot of the fair one light,
A line of dust-script withal On the tablet of vision I'll write.

And if unto me there should come Her warrant in quest of my life,
My soul, as the candle doth, Surrender will I forthright.

If she the base coin of my heart Stamp not with the standard of proof,
I'll tell down apace, in her way, Current coin from the mint of the sight.

Nay, shake not the skirt thus from me, The dust-like; for when I am dead,
My dust will refuse to be borne From thy door by the wind in its flight.

Of wistfulness for thine embrace, In longing I'm drowned; but I hope
In the waves of my tears, that me yet They will bear to the shore of delight.

Thy black tresses twain gave a bond For consoling of lovers forlorn;
And natheless from me my repose And endurance they've ravished outright.

Thy face from faith-keeping to me Avert not; beware of the hour
When, of grief for thy sake, I uplift The hand for the prayer of the night.

A wind-waft of perfume, o breeze, From that wine of delight to me bring,
So its fragrance for me may allay Cropsickness' annoy and despite.

For ever engaged with the praise Of the tip of thy tress is my speech;
Hence breathing of Tartary musk Is all that I say and endite.

Since, Hafiz, her ruby-red lip The very dear soul is to me,
That moment's a lifetime for me, When I to the lip bring my spright.