Classic Poem

Many a time and oft I've said it And once more I say,
That, of mine own self, I, heart-lorn, Travel not this way.

Parrot-wise, before the mirror Do the Fates me hold;
What the master of Creation Bade me say, I say

Whether thorn I be or rosebud, There a Gardener is
Up aloft: as me He reareth, So I grow alway.

Me, heart-lorn, astonied, blame not, Friends: a gem I have
And seek one, into whose keeping I commit it may.

On the particoloured patchcoat Though a slur be wine,
Chide not, for withal dissembling's Hue I wash away.

Lovers' tears and lovers' laughter Other cause than thine
Have: I sing at night and mourning Make at break of day.

“Smell not thou the dust” quoth Hafiz “Of the winehouse door.”
Chide not; for therein the musk-pods Scent I of Cathay.