Classic Poem

Roses in bosom, wine in hand And she I love submiss is;
The Sultan of the world my slave On such a day as this is.

Bring ye no candles; for, to night, In this our congregation,
The moon of the Friend's cheek's at full And other light dismisses.

Wine in our order lawful is; But, in thy face's absence,
O cypress-statured rose, the cup Forbidden and amiss is.

No perfumes for our banquet mix; For, from thy tress, each moment,
Borne to the nostrils of our soul The scent of ambergris is.

Mine ear is all ta'en up with wail Of reed and clang of harpstrings;
Mine eye all on thy ruby lip And circling cup of bliss is.

Bespeak me not of sugar's taste Nor that of sugar-candy;
By reason that my one desire Thy dulcet lip to kiss is.

Since that grief's treasure for thy sake My heart's waste places holdeth,
The tavern-corner still for me Sole dwelling-place, ywis, is.

What pratest thou of shame? My shame In good repute consisteth
What askest of repute? For me, Repute repute to miss is.

Winebibber, wencher, giddypate, Toper, I am, I own it;
And where is he who not as I, In such a town as this, is?

Me to the Mohtesib to blame 'Twere idle; for he also,
Like us, in quest of wine-bibbing, Forever unremiss is.

Without beloved one and wine, Sit not a moment, Hafiz;
The Feast-tide 'tis and come the time Of jasmine, rose and lys is.