Classic Poem

Our fortune in this city We've proven many a year;
Behoveth from this whirlpool To carry off our gear.

I kindle, for much gnawing Of hands and heaving sighs,
My body, rended piecemeal, Like roses fallen sere.

Last night to me how sweetly A bulbul sang, what while
The rose, upon its branches, Made wide to hark its ear,

Saying, “O heart, be merry; For that strait-natured Friend
“Herself must oft sit sorry, Because of Fortune drear.”

If thou wilt have pass o'er thee The world-all's hard and soft,
Leave thou thy soft troth-keeping And thy hard words arear.

Though Chance's stormy billows Against high heaven beat,
With not one drop of water The sage doth wet his gear.

O Hafiz, if enjoyment For ever were vouchsafed,
Jemshíd his throne had never Abandoned for the bier.