Classic Poem

Orion, in the dawning, His baldric down doth lay,
As who, “The King's liege-servant I swear to be!” should say

Come, skinker, for by Fortune's Consenting aid, a boon,
Which I of God entreated, Is granted me to-day.

Give wine, for, of my joyance In the King's sight, the lusts
Of youth once more revisit My head, for all 'tis gray.

Waylay me not with praises Of Khizr's fount; for I
A quaffer am of nectar From the King's cup of sway.

Though, Sire, the throne of learning To the ninth heav'n I rear,
I'm still thy portal's bondman, The beggar of thy way.

Dreg-drainer of thy banquet This many a year I've been:
How shall my wonted nature From this its well-head stray?

Nay, if thou lend not credit Unto thy slave, I'll cite
Kemál the Isfeháni, In proof of what I say:

“If I, my heart up-tearing, My love from thee withdraw,
“Whom shall I cast this love on, Whither this heart convey?”

Love of the king conditioned To me was in the Prime
And I in this condition Shall travel life's highway.

The name “Mensóur Muzéffer” 's My amulet and I,
By this name's blessing, conquer My foemen in the fray.

Since Heav'n itself the Pleïads In the King's name hath strung,
Shall I not in his praises The pearls of verse array?

Since I, on falcon fashion, Have fed from the King's hand,
How shall I now address me To pigeons for a prey?

How were thy shadow lessened, O lion-conquering king,
If I therein might rest me, In freedom from affray?

I've neither wing nor feather: And yet 'tis strange that, save
To reach the Simurgh's dwelling, In head I've nothing aye.

My verse heart-realms an hundred, Thanks to thy praise, hath won;
My tongue thy sword resembleth, Which nothing can gainsay

If, like the wind of morning, I by a rose-bed passed,
'Twas not for love of cypress Or wish of pinetree; nay,

'Twas that thy scent I traced there And to thy face's thought,
The cupbearer of joyance Gave me a cup or tway.

With one or two grapes drunken 'Tis not thy servant's wont
To be: I'm one year-stricken, In winehouses grown gray.

With heaven many a quarrel I have and with the stars;
Be the King's justice ever My helper and my stay!

Thank God that, from this doorhead, The Peacock of the Throne
My pinions' rustle heareth And my resounding lay!

The lion's whelp attempted The capture of my heart;
But, be I fat or meagre, I am the lion's prey.

If my employ be ever Other than praise of thee,
My name be from the bede-roll Of lovers done away!

O thou, whose face's lovers More than the sun-motes are,
How shall I reach thine union, I that am less than they?

Show me who 'tis denieth The beauty of thy cheek,
His eye with jealous lancet That extirpate I may.

Since upon me the shadow Fell of the kingship's sun,
I'm quit of care, henceforward, Anent the sun of day

My aim in this is nowise To make the market brisk;
I never purchased favours Nor praises sold for pay.

Hafiz a hearty lover Is of the Prophet's house:
My lord the King is witness, Forsooth, to this I say.