Classic Poem

Since that thine image we have, Of liquor for us what need is?
Say to the winejar “Be stopped;” For the winehouse's ruin decreed is

Though heaven's own nectar it be, Spill, spill it, for, lacking the Loved One,
Each draught that thou giv'st me of sweet The essence of torment, indeed, is.

Alack, for the Charmer is gone And now on mine eye full of weeping
The image we grave of her down As writing on water to read is.

Be wakeful, o eye; for, God wot, From the torrents that flow without ceasing,
In the place of abidal of dreams, Assurance for none without heed is.

By thee, face to face and unveiled, To pass the Beloved still useth;
But strangers she spied and so bound Her head with the face-veiling wede is.

The rose, since the grace of the sweat On thy rose-cheek it saw, for heart-sickness,
To rosewater all to-dissolved, On the furnace of envy and greed, is.

In the corners and nooks of my brain Go seek not a place for good counsel;
This closet all full of the hum Of viol and ghittern and reed is.

The way of thy love, what a way It is! For, compared with its vastness,
The world-rounding sea of the sky, God wot, a mere bubble and bead is!

See, verdant are valley and plain! Come, let us beware of withholding
The hand from the wellspring of mirth; For the world-all a mirage, indeed, is.

In the halls of the heart, from thy face Are hundreds of tapers enkindled;
And that, strange to say, whilst thy cheek From its hundredfold veils yet unfreed is!

Without thy soul-solacing face, O candle, the heart that illumest,
My heart, like roast meat on the fire, With dole and chagrin all ableed is.

If Hafiz a winebibber be, A lover and wencher, what matter?
Full many an usance right strange To youth appertaining of need is.