Classic Poem

Our Book, for this many a year, In pawn for the vinejuice red is;
Yea, still from our lore and prayer The sheen of the winehouse shed is.

The Sheikh of the Magians' grace To us poor sots consider;
Whatever we do in the eye Of his favour goodlihead is.

With wine let us all to-wash The writ of the understanding;
For spite against those that know In heaven, I've seen, inbred is.

My heart, like the compasses, In all directions turneth;
And yet in that round the foot Of the dizzard fast in stead is.

The minstrel such strains did sing Of passion and of anguish
That even the sage's eye With ruddy tears be-bled is.

In gladness I've blossomed out, Rose-like on the bank of the streamlet;
Because that her shade, that straight, Slim cypress, o'er my head is.

THAT from the fair, o heart, Seek, if thou know what's goodly;
For so said one in lore Of insight who well read is.

My elder, Sheikh Gulréng, Anent yon blue-gowned gentry
Misspeech and blame forbade; Else much there to be said is.

Hafiz's gilt base coin To him is never proffered;
For 'ware of hidden faults The mate at board and bed is.