Classic Poem

Lo, in thy tress ensnared my heart A-bleed, of its own self, is;
Come, slay it with a glance; for that The meed of its own self is.

If at thy hand our soul its wish Shall compass, give it quickly;
For kindness still in place, when done, With speed, of its own self, is.

Nay, by thy soul, sweet idol mine, My soul's wish (like the taper
In the dark nights) effacement sheer, Indeed, of its own self is.

When first thou thought'st to love, I bade Thee do it not, o bulbul;
For yonder rose grown up from out The seed of its own self is.

The rose's fragrance needeth not The musk of Ind and China;
For musk-pod holding in each fold Its wede, of its own self, is.

To the ungenerous of the age Repair thou not for succour;
Thy soul's salvation in the nook Decreed of its own self is.

Though Hafiz burn, yet, in the law Of Love and self-surrender,
His soul still faithful to the pact And creed, of its own self, is.