Classic Poem

Lo, the shining moon thy face's Argent sheen hath not
And the rose, by thee, the grass's Lustre e'en hath not.

In the corner of thine eyebrow Is my soul's abode;
Goodlier dwelling than this corner King or queen hath not.

What will my heart's smoke, I wonder, Do with that thy cheek?
Since the mirror power to suffer Sighs, I ween, hath not.

Not I only the oppression Suffer of thy tress;
Who is't that of yonder blackmoor Branded been hath not?

Yonder eye of thine, my fairest, That black-hearted one,
Least regard for friend or comrade, That I've seen, hath not

Quick, the heavy pottle bring me, Youngling of the inn;
Here's a sheikh's good health, who cloister, Fat or lean, hath not!

Drink thy blood, friend, and sit silent; For that tender heart
Strength to bear the justice-seeker's Wailing keen hath not.

See the face of the narcissus, Blooming in thy sight!
Nay, regard for breeding yonder Shameless quean hath not.

With the blood of his own liver Bid him wash his sleeve
Who of áccess to this threshold Way or mean hath not.

Blame not Hafiz, if prostration He to thee perform;
For Love's infidel, o idol, Aught of sin hath not.