Classic Poem

Into the tavern came, cup in hand, Yon sweetheart of mine,
Drunken with wine and the topers drunk With her tipsy eyne.

The hoofs of her steed the fashion show Of the crescent moon
And lowly, beside her stately shape, 's The height of the pine.

Of what shall I say “It is,” of self When I have no wit?
Of what shall I say “'Tis not”, by her When I see, in fine?

The lamp of the comrades' hearts sinks down, When she riseth up;
She sitteth and lovers uplift the voice For love-repine.

If civet smell sweet, it is because It clung to thy locks;
If woad's bow-drawing, it is that it clave To those brows of thine.

My life, like the candle, from night till morn, Consumeth away;
It knoweth no moment of rest, like the moth, Till morning shine.

Return, that Hafiz's life forspent May eke return,
Albeit the arrow returneth not, Once sped from the twine.