Classic Poem

O happy his heart is that after The lusts of the eye goeth not,
That unto each door where they bid him, Unwotting of why, goeth not!

For me, after that sweet ruby That I should not hanker of hers,
Were better; but after sugar, Woe worth it! what fly goeth not?

O thou that art of the angels, God grant that forth of thy mind
The troth that to me thou plightedst, In seasons past by, goeth not!

The black of mine eye grief-smitten Oh wash not away with tears,
That so of thy mole the image Fore'er from mine eye goeth not.

None see I whose book is blacker; 'Twere strange if, as ink in pen,
The smoke to my head of the burning Of this my hearts' sigh goeth not.

Heart, be not like this a babbler And vagrant; for aught of good
Or profit, God wot, from-thee-ward, This craft an thou ply, goeth not.

From the Path with the crest of the hoopoe Ne'er lure me; the falcon white,
For pride, after every sparrow, That it may espy, goeth not.

On me like the East, come lavish Thy fragrance; for unto me,
Withouten the scent of thy tresses, There's nought that awry goeth not.

The fault of me drunk with the skirt-hem Of clemency hide: for so slight
A matter, the sheen of the Canon Of God the Most High goeth not.

I yearn for a cypress-shaped loveling, (I, beggar that am!), whose zone,
Excepting for gold and silver, The hand to untie goeth not.

Bring wine and first give it to Hafiz In hand, on condition the talk
Thereof from our privy circle, For fear of the spy, goeth not.