Classic Poem

My hand from the quest I will not Withhold till my need forth cometh;
My love till I win or my spirit The body's wede forth cometh.

We cannot new friends, like the faithless, Each breath take: we and the dust
Of her quarter are one till spirit, From body freed, forth cometh.

My life's at the lip and regretful My heart is, for that from the flesh
My soul, of her lip ungotten The true lover's meed, forth cometh.

The soul upon me is straitened For hopeless desire of her mouth;
Thereof the desire of the beggar On what wise, indeed, forth cometh?

My tomb, when I'm sped, do thou open And note through the shroud how the smoke
From the fires, on my burning vitals Forever that feed, forth cometh.

Arise, in the meads since because of Thy shape and thy standing-up,
The cypress fruit-bearing waxeth, To height the low weed forth cometh.

In hope that a rose like thy visage It may in the garden find,
The zephyr is come and each moment, To circuit the mead, forth cometh.

Display thou thy face, whilst a people Astonied abide; and speak,
Whilst wailing from man and woman, That hearken thy rede, forth cometh.

Each bend of thy tress hath angles An hundred: from such a coil,
Lo, how shall it chance that scatheless My heart all a-bleed forth cometh?

Yea, still with approof of Hafiz They speak in the lover-tribe,
Whenever his name in banquets, With ghittern and reed, forth cometh.