The sage with the shining water of wine His purification maketh,
What while of the winehouse, at break of day, He visitation maketh.

When hidden becometh the golden bowl Of the sun, the skinker's eyebrow,
That moon of the Festival, sign for the cup's Free circulation maketh.

My heart from the curl of her tress, at the cost Of the soul, confusion buyeth:
I know not what profit it seeth, that it This speculation maketh.

Lo, even his rev'rence the Lord Imám, Him of long prayers who vaunteth,
God wot, of his gown, in the blood of the maid Of the vine, lustration maketh.

Nay, come to the winehouse and see how near My station there to the throne is,
Albe us the zealot a butt for scorn And vilification maketh.

The sign of the covenant of love From Hafiz' soul seek ever,
Though sorrow for thee of the house of the heart Sore spoliation maketh.