Classic Poem

She went and aware of her going Her lovers distraught made not
And sign, that of city-companions Or waymates she thought, made not.

'Twas either my sorry fortune, That swerved from the the path of Love,
Or she by the road of usance Her way, as she ought, made not.

I was standing await, like the taper, To pour out my soul at her feet;
But the Loved One, withal, by us passage, Like breezes dawn-brought, made not.

Quoth I, " Peradventure with weeping Her heart I may melt; " but my tears
On her, like to raindrops on marble, Impression in aught made not.

My heart, wing and pinion, is broken With grief; yet the smart of my pain
Away from my head with love's passion, Though idle and naught, made not.

Whoever hath looked on thy visage Still kisseth mine eye in approof,
Because it its choice without insight, In that which it wrought, made not.

This tongue-slitten reed-pen of Hafiz, Until it had lost its head,
Thy mystery known in th'assembly, Whoever besought, made not.