Classic Poem

From the lasso of thy tress-tip Is deliverance for none;
Wretched swains thou slay'st nor fearest Punishment for what thou'st done:

In the wilds of self-effacement Save the heart-burnt lover fare,
In the spirit's holy places He is no accepted one.

From Rustem thine eyelash-arrow Beareth off the victory;
From Weccas thine eyebrow's bowman Hath the prize of arch'ry won.

Candle-wise, in all sincereness, In the midst my soul I set;
Strewage made I of my body In the road thy feet did run.

What while thou, for longing, moth-like, Burnest not in love and truth,
Verily, for thee deliv'rance From the grief of love is none.

Into our moth-heart thou castest Fire, albeit we, moth-like,
In desire of thee still dancing, Death and danger did not shun.

Lo, thy love's alchymic virtue Our base-metal earthy self
Hath to purest gold transmuted, Bright and shining as the sun.

Marry, what should know the vulgar Of the worth of pearls of price?
Hafiz, waste thy peerless jewels Not on every mother's son.