Classic Poem

I'm drunken still with yonder Curled browlock's fragrant air of thine;
Confounded with the witchery Of that false eye I fare of thine.

Shall we a night, I wonder, After such patience, see, wherein
We may the vision's candle Light in that niche of prayer of thine?

The eyeball's middle blackness For this unto my heart is dear
That it for me the likeness Of yon swart mole doth wear of thine.

If thou the world be minded At once for ever to adorn,
The East wind bid a moment The veil from that face tear of thine;

And if the use of transience From out the world thou'dst cast, thy head
But shake, so souls by thousands May rain from every hair of thine.

Two helpless, errant wretches, The East wind and myself, we are;
I drunk with thine eye's sorcery, It with that browlock's air of thine.

Hail, Hafiz's lofty spirit! Since of this world and that his eyes
Hold nought, the dust excepted Of yonder street, my fair, of thine!