Classic Poem

Preachers, who in niche and pulpit All this great display do practise,
In seclusion other business And on other way do practise.

Yea, my soul is all amazement At these brazenfaced exhorters
To repentance, who so little What themselves they say do practise.

I've a difficulty; put it To the sage of the assembly;
Why these urgers to repentance No repentance aye do practise?

Thou would'st say that they believe not In the dreadful Day of Judgment,
Since this fraud and this deception In God's business they do practise.

Back, Lord, in their proper stable Set these upstarts, who, by reason
Of some boughten Turk muledriver, All these airs to-day do practise.

At the portal of Love's winehouse, Angels, say, “To God be glory!”
For that therewithin the leav'ning They of Adam's clay do practise.

Often as her boundless beauty Lovers slayeth, other legions,
From th' Invisible, head-raising Unto Love straightway do practise.

I'm the servant of the Elder Of the tavern, whose disciples,
For sheer wishlessness, contemning Of the world's array do practise.

Ho, thou beggar of the cloister, Up! For, in the Magians' convent,
With a water they the making Hearts both rich and gay do practise.

Make thou clear the house of idols For the abode of the Beloved;
For with heart and soul these harpies Havoc and affray do practise.

Came a clamour in the dawning From the topmost heav'n. Quoth reason,
“Angels 'tis that getting Hafiz' Verse by heart, thou'dst say, do practise.”