Classic Poem

My heart is run wild and I, also, Poor wretch, am witless sheer:
What manner of thing betided Hath to yon scared wild deer?

Like to the leaves of the willow, I tremble and quake for my faith;
For it, at a bow-browed wanton's, An infidel's hand, I fear.

Myself for the maw of the ocean I fancy. Away! What things
There be in the head of this droplet, So full of idle gear!

I praise me that saucy, wanton, Health-murdering lash of hers,
A-top of whose thorn Life's water For lovers welleth clear.

The sleeves of the leaches trickle, When for approof they lay
The hand on my wounded bosom, With many a bloody tear.

Weeping and head down hanging, I go in the tavern-street,
Because to me shame betideth Of that which I've garnered here.

Nor Khizr for aye abideth Nor yet Sikender's realm:
So fret not thy heart, o dervish, For the world's worthless gear.

A bondman thou art; of loved ones Make not complaint, o friend!
Love's law complaint forbiddeth Of worse or better cheer.

The hand of no beggar winneth, Hafiz, to that her waist;
Go, get thee in hand a treasure, That Korah's shall out-peer.