Classic Poem

I've limned with thy face's likeness The tablet of mine eyne;
For ne'er have I seen or hearkened A fair with a shape like thine.

Mine, mine was the hope of lordship: And so thy bonds I sought:
The kingship I wished and therefore To serve thee did incline.

Although in thy quest the North Wind's Reinfellow still I am,
Ne'er yet have I overtaken The dust of thy waving pine.

In the night of thy tress I dream not Of hope in the day of life;
All thought of the heart's desirement, In time of thy mouth, resign.

The fault of thy neck heart-luring It was and thine eye of black
That I from the folk to the desert Have fled like the deer and kine.

What tears have I shed for longing, Because of thy honey-fount!
What cheats from thy lip I've purchased, That ruby seller of wine!

What arrows of looks thou launchedst At this my wounded heart!
What burdens of woe I've suffered At that street-end of thine!

Bring, bring of the dust of her quarter, Breeze of the morning, bring!
The scent of the lovers' heart's blood I breathe in that earth divine.

Late, over my head, like the rosebud, A breeze from her quarter passed
And lo! at its fragrance opened This weariful heart of mine.

I swear by the dust of thy footsteps, O sun of Hafiz's sight,
That, lacking thy cheek, no lustre I see from the lamp of the eyne!