Classic Poem

Though in ferment, like the wine-jar, For the heart a-fire, am I,
Seal on lip, on blood I batten And in silence I aby.

On her lip to set the fancy Is to aim at one's own life;
See me, madman, how this matter With my soul I seek to buy!

How from heart's grief shall I sever, Since each breath the blackmoor tress
Of some fair the ring of bondage In the ear of me doth tie?

Not of fervour of religion This my patchcoat-wearing is:
On this veil for hiding secret Faults an hundred I rely.

I, whose only wish to drink is Of pure wine, what shall I do,
To the Magian Elder's bidding But the ear of wit apply?

God forbid that I confide not In mine own devotion! Nay,
Such my trust is that the winecup Still, from time to time, I ply.

'Spite the enemy, my hope is That, upon the Reckoning Day,
His forgiveness will not suffer On my back sin's burden lie.

For two grains of wheat my father Sold the meads of Paradise;
And except for one I sold it, No true son of his were I.

If the minstrel play the measure Hight of Love and sing thereto
Hafiz' verse, from wit and feeling Ravished shall I be thereby.