Classic Poem

When the light of the sun of wine The East of the bowl forth cometh,
O many a tulip the garth Of the cupbearer's jole forth cometh!

The breeze on the head of the rose The curl of the hyacinth breaketh,
When midward the meads the scent Of that tress and that mole forth cometh.

Hope not that a crumb from the round Of the heavens' inverted platter,
Unbought with an hundred woes, For thee, o my soul, forth cometh.

The anguish of sev'rance's night No history is of whose import,
For treatises hundred-fold, One particle sole forth cometh.

If thou, 'neath the stress of the Flood, Like Noah, have patience, the deluge
Subsideth and syne thy wish Its thousand years' goal forth cometh.

One cannot attain of oneself To the pearl of desire; 'twere idle
To think that this business, without Heav'ns help and control, forth cometh.

O'er Hafiz's tomb if the waft Of thy pleasantness pass, from his ashes,
Incontinent, thousand-voiced, The sound of his dole forth cometh.