Classic Poem

So but of fortune backed I be, Hand on the Loved One's skirt I'll lay:
An if I win it, what delight! Yea, and what honour, if she slay!

Vantage of pity hath from none Gotten this hopeful heart of mine,
Albe my speech my tale of woes Unto all quarters doth convey.

Idols with hearts of stone how long Shall I with love and fondness tend?
Children unnatural, of the sire, Fondly that reared them, think not they.

Door of deliverance none for me Is there from that thine eyebrow's curve:
'Las! in pursuit of that crook'd conceit Dear life hath perished and passed away.

How shall the brow of the Friend, indeed, Hand-holding be to me, poor wretch?
None with this bow in the clout of hope The arrow of wish hath shotten aye.

With pious purpose am I become A corner-sitter; but lo! 'tis strange
That from all quarters the Magian youth With drum and dulcimer me waylay.

Dolts are the zealots; no droning psalms Chant, but a wanton ditty sing.
The Mohtesib drunk with dissembling is: Give wine, then, skinker, without affray.

See how the city Soufi eats The doubtful morsel! Well-foddered beast!
Long be his crupper and may he wax In better beastlihood night and day!

Hafiz, if thou thy feet address To fare in the path of the folk of Love;
The blessing of him, who o'er Nejéf Waketh and watcheth, guide thy way!