Classic Poem

Say not, when the word of the wise Thou hearest, “The saying unfit is”:
My fair, thou'rt no kenner of speech; The fault in thine own lack of wit is

The head of me boweth not down To this world not yet to the other;
No, (blessed be Heaven!) for all The tumult and coil that in it is.

Meknoweth not who is within This bosom of mine, the heart-wounded;
For I, I am silent and it In clamour and cry infinite is.

My heart is come forth of the veil Of patience: ho! where is the minstrel?
Come, sing to me quick, for my case Is lightened and eased by thy ditties.

I never had heed to the goods Of this weariful world; for its fairness
From that thy bright cheek, in mine eyes, All borrowed and drawn every whit is.

These hundred nights past I've not slept, For an image that haunteth my fancy;
Cropsick am I: where is the house Where the remedy,—wine, to wit,—is?

Since thus with the blood of my heart Berayed are the cell and the cloister,
With wine if ye wash me, the right In your hand (who can else but admit?) is.

In the Magians' convent, God wot, They hold me in honour and worship
For this, that a fire in my heart, That dieth not ever, alit is.

What instrument was it, indeed, That yesternight sounded the minstrel,
So life from me lapsed and my brain Still full of the sound of the fytte is?

Of the love of thee unto mine ear They yesternight made proclamation;
The plain of my heart, for desire, Of the sound of the cry yet unquit is.

Since first unto Hafiz there came The sound of the voice of the Loved One,
For yearning, the mount of his heart Yet full of the echo of it is.