Classic Poem

Lord, of thy favour, cause That my Loved One safe and hale
Return and deliver me From the clutches of blame and bale.

Bring, bring of the dust of the way Of the Friend departed hence,
So heal that I may withal My world-wearied eye of its ail.

That mole and that down and that tress, That cheek and that face and that shape,
From all the six quarters at once, The path of my heart assail.

To day, whilst I'm yet in thy hand, Some little compassion display!
To morrow, when I shall be dust, Will tears or repentance avail?

O thou, that so learnedly prat'st Of Love, with expounding and proof,
With thee we have nothing to do: Begone thou in peace with thy tale!

O dervish, lament nor complaint Of lovelings' oppression make thou;
For these be a sort that are wont To take of their victims blood-mail.

Fire, fire, to the patchcoat come set; For the curve of the cupbearer's brow
O'er prayer-niche and portico-arch Of mosque and Imám doth prevail.

Since lovelings' injustices all Sheer favour and pleasantness are,
Far be it from me, then, that I Thy cruelty e'er should bewail!

Nay, never is Hafiz at end With the tale of the chain of thy tress;
For this, though prolonged till the Day Of the Rising, would nevermore fail.