Classic Poem

Thou, by whose bright face bloometh The tulip-bed of life,
Come, for, without thy cheek-rose, The Spring's forshed of life.

They reck not of the ocean Of nothingness, for whom
The compass of thy mouth is The pivot-head of life

Small marvel if the teardrops Rain from mine eyes; for, in
The grief of thee, like lightning, The time hath sped of life.

I, without life, alive am; And this no wonder is
When were the days of sev'rance Strung on the thread of life?

On every side's an ambush Of Fate's vicissitudes;
Whence with drawn rein must slowly The horseman tread of life

This day or twain, when Fortune Vouchsafeth us her sight,
Enjoy, for none may fathom The secret dread of life.

How long the wine of dawntide And dulcet morning-sleep?
Awake! Beware! for surely The flower is fled of life.

By us she passed nor cast us An eyeglance yesterday:
Poor heart, that nought hath gotten By all it's led of life!

Sing, Hafiz; for this writing, Thy pen on the world's page
Graveth, shall bide for memory, When thou art dead, of life.