Classic Poem

Now that the hand of the rose The wine cup clear upraises,
With an hundred thousand tongues The bulbul chants her praises.

Call for the book of songs And take the way of the desert.
Is it a time for the schools Or the chewing of schoolmen's phrases?

Sever thyself from the folk And pattern take by the Anca;
The name of the sitters-alone From pole unto pole Fame blazes.

The Sheikh of the mosque last night Was drunken and gave pronouncement
That better on wine forbid To live than by almous ways is.

No option is thine of clear Or troubled; drink and be silent;
For goodness itself whate'er Our Cupbearer us purveys is.

As the tale of the worker in gold And the weaver of mats, the pretender's
Conceit and the clamour of those Who think to rival my lays is.

Peace, Hafiz, and these thy traits, Like thrice-refined gold, watch over;
The city's forger of coin The mint-master grown nowadays is.