Classic Poem

My moon this week the city left; And in mine eyes a year 'tis;
What wottest thou of severance, How hard a case and drear 'tis?

The apple of mine eye in her Bright cheek its own reflection
Espieth, as a musky mole It were, so smooth and clear 'tis.

From yonder sugared lip of hers The milk yet drips, albeit
“A lover-murd'rer,” one may say Of each her eyelash-spear, “'tis.”

Thou, who'rt the byword of the town For bounteousness, a marvel,
That unto strangers thou so cold Shouldst be and so austere, 'tis.

The Atom Indivisible Nowise henceforth I doubt of:
Thy mouth best proof of what the wise Upon this point assert is.

They give me the glad news that thou To pass by us intendest:
Change not thy purpose; for, in sooth, An omen of good cheer 'tis.

The mountain-burden of thy loss How should poor Hafiz' body
Support? For fragile as a rush, For love and sorrow sheer, 'tis.