Classic Poem

O gone from sight, to God The keeping I commend of thee;
My soul thou rack'st; yet dear To me's the thought, o friend, of thee.

What while the gravecloth's skirt I trail not underneath the dust,
Believe me, from the skirt My hand shall never wend of thee.

The prayer niche of thy brows Display, that in the dawn the hand
Of prayer I may uplift And to the neck append of thee.

Though to Haróut it should In Babylon behove me go,
I'd work an hundred spells, To me the heart to bend of thee.

Nay, suffer, of thy grace, That, of the burning of my heart,
Pearls from mine eyes I still Upon the feet may spend of thee.

About me, with my tears, An hundred rivers have I made,
In hope the seed of love The stony heart may rend of thee.

It shed my blood and thus From parting's pangs delivered me;
So to the sworder-glance My thanks therefor I send of thee.

Before thy face I fain Would die. O faithless leach, at least,
Of the sick man enquire; For still this hope I tend of thee.

Wine, wench and wantonness, Hafiz, are none of thine affair:
Egad, I wash my hands (Excepting thou amend) of thee.