Classic Poem

Of the love of her my heart the holy place is;
Mirror-holder this mine eye unto her face is.

I that bow not down to this world nor the other,
See, my neck beneath the burden of her grace is.

Thou the Touba, I the shape of the Beloved;
Each man's way of thought according to his case is.

In that sanctuary what am I, where the zephyr:
Curtain-holder of her honour's altar-space is?

Skirt-polluted an I be, what matter? Witness
To her purity the whole world, good and base, is.

Past and gone is Mejnoun's time and now our turn 'tis:
Every mortal's turn in this our world five days is.

Love's dominion, mirth its treasure, all I joy in,
In her happy fortune's auspice hath its basis.

Nay, what matter if my heart and I should perish?
Since her weal the only object of our chase is.

Never empty may mine eye be of her image,
For its apple her especial privy place is!

Every newborn rose, the meadows that adorneth,
Of the Loved One's scent and colour but the trace is.

Heed his seeming poortith not, for Hafiz' bosom
All the treasure of the love of her embraces.