Classic Poem

From of old the love of fair ones Only wont and goal of mine is
And the care thereof the solace Of this heart in dole of mine is

To discern thy mouth of ruby Eyes soul-seeing there behoveth.
What room for this eye, that seith Body, but not soul, of mine is?

Be my friend; for the adornment Of the world-all from thy moonface
And the tears that, like the Pleiads, From these eyes do roll of mine, is.

Since the love of thee in speechcraft Lessoned me whilere, the practice
Of all people's tongues these praises Ever to extol of mine is.

Poverty, o Lord, vouchsafe me; For the very cause its blessing
Of this puissance and this glory, Spread from pole to pole, of mine is.

Vaunt thyself not thus, o preacher, That thou knowest men of worship;
Lo, the dwelling of the Sultan This sad heart and sole of mine is.

Lord, whose pleasaunce is that Mecca Of the heart's desire, each thornbush
Of whose way than rose and wild rose Sweeter to this soul of mine is?

Who to steer it o'er the ocean Taught thine image? Nay, its guider,
Sure, the tears, that, like the Pleiads, From these eyeballs roll of mine, is.

Tell me no more tales, o Hafiz, Of the might of Khusrau Perwiz:
Dreg-drainer his lip of yonder Shirin Khusrau's bowl of mine is.