Classic Poem

Skinker, bring wine, for the month Of fasting and prayer hath past;
Give me the bowl, for the time Of worship and care hath past.

To waste went the precious time. Come, quick let us pay the arrears
Of an age, that sans flagon and cup And minstrel and fair hath past.

On fire of repentance how long, Thus, aloes-wood like, shall we burn?
Give wine, for our life over long In idle despair hath past.

Come, make thou me drunk on such wise That for ecstacy I may ignore
Who fareth the plain of the thought, Who whence and who where hath past.

On the stone bench of prayer for thy weal, Each morn and each eve of our life,
In the hope that a draught from thy cup May fall to our share, hath past.

To the heart of the soul, that was dead, Lo! life hath been added anew,
Since a waft o'er its palate of smell From the scent of thy hair hath past.

The bigots, misled by conceit, The road of salvation fare not;
But the sot to the Garden of Peace, By the pathway of prayer, hath past.

What heart's ready money I had On wine have I spent; 'twas base coin
And therefore to uses unfit And fashions unfair hath past.

Admonish ye Hafiz no more; For never a lostling yet found
The way of salvation, adown Whose gullet wine e'er hath past.