Classic Poem

Queen of mine, thou go'st so goodly That for thee outright I die;
Turk of mine, thou swayest sweetly; For thy shape and height I die.

“When,” sayst thou, “wilt die before me?” O my soul, what need of haste?
Lo, thou ask'st and ere thine asking Ended is, forthright I die.

I'm a drunken, exiled lover: Where's the idol-cupbearer?
Sway thy graceful stature hither, Till before thy sight I die.

Bid ye her, for whose estrangement 'Tis a lifetime that I'm sick,
“Give a look, so of thy glances, Darkling as the night, I die.”

“Pain,” sayst thou, “my lip of ruby Giveth, ay, and medicine.”
Of thy pain and of thy med'cine, Turn by turn, poor wight, I die.

Gracefully thou goest swaying, Far from thee the evil eye!
At thy feet may (this one fancy Have I in my spright) I die!

Though no room there be for Hafiz In thy favour's sanctuary,
For thine every place, whose every Place is good and right, I die.