Classic Poem

Me unto oppression, dust-like, For a trampling-stock, she gave;
Yet her dust I kiss and pardon Of her trampling foot I crave.

None am I that for oppression Rail at thee. Nay, God forbid!
I am but thy faithful servant And thy weal-desiring slave.

To the crook-end of thy ringlet I my long hope bounden have;
God forbid that it the shortness Of my hand of quest outbrave!

Dust-mote that I am, right goodly In thy street's the time for me;
Yet I fear lest thence some wind-waft Bear me with a sudden wave.

I'm a Soufi of Heav'n's cloister; But the Fates have presently
My abiding-place appointed In the Magians' convent-cave.

In the dawn the tavern-elder Brought me the world-showing cup
And impartment of thy beauty In that mirror to me gave.

Up! With me, the wayside sitter, To the winehouse come and see
What a man of worth and worship Held am I in that conclave.

Drunk thou passest and of Hafiz Tak'st no thought; but woe to thee
To thy beauty's skirt if ever These my sighs fire-kindling clave!

Well it came to me at dawntide That the monarch of the East
Said, “I am, for all my kingship, Touranshah the Vizier's slave.”