Classic Poem

Up, skinker, and give me In hand the bowl!
Cast dust on the costard of Fortune's dole!

A cup of wine set on my palm, so withal
This patchcoat of blue I may draw o'er my poll.

Though't infamy be in the eyes of the wise,
Fair fame, ay, and honour Are none of our goal.

Give wine! How much dust by the wind of conceit
Hath been cast on the head of the good-for-nought-soul!

The smoke of the sighs of my breast all a-fire
Hath burnt up these dull-witted dolts, part and whole.

Man worthy my frenzied heart's secret to know,
Midst gentle and simple, I see not one sole.

With a heart-soothing charmer my soul is content,
From my heart at one stroke rest and easance who stole.

None, none who our silver-shanked cypress had seen
Would look on the cypress of meadow and knoll.

Be patient, o Hafiz, in stress, night and day:
Thou yet shalt attain to thy heart-desired goal.