Classic Poem

Openly the words I utter, And heart-glad am I of it;
I'm Love's slave and of the burden Of this world and that I'm quit.

I'm a bird of heaven's rosemeads; Who shall tell how thence I fell,
How in this our nether snare-place Of vicissitudes I lit?

I an angel was and topmost Paradise my dwelling-place:
To this ruin-peopled cloister Adam's sin did me remit.

Touba's shade and Kauther's margent, Houri's heart-seducing charms,
In the longing for thy street-end, From my memory did flit.

No astrologer the planet Of my fortune apprehends:
Why, o Lord, of earthly mother To be born was I forewrit?

Since a bondman in Love's winehouse, Ring in ear, I'm grown, each breath
Some chagrin anew accosteth Me with “Hail, fellow! Well hit!”

My heart's blood the apple drinketh Of the eye; and meet it is.
Why unto the folk's heart's darling, Why, my heart did I commit?

Nothing's writ on my heart's tablet Save the Elif of her shape:
What's to do? No other letter Me my master taught than it.

Clear of tears the face of Hafiz Make thou with thy tress's tip,
Lest their torrent sap and ruin The foundations of my wit.