Classic Poem

When the skinker wine in winecup With this air y-casteth,
Sages all into wine-drinking's Open snare he casteth.

When the mole-bait 'neath her tress-hook Thus the loveling streweth,
In the net she many a prudent Bird and wary casteth.

Goodly is that drunkard's portion, Who ignoreth whether
Head or turban in the pathway Of the fair he casteth.

Yonder zealot, rawness-seeking, In denial biding,
Waxeth cooked, on raw wine glances Whensoe'er he casteth.

Skill by day seek; for, who drinketh Wine by day, the mirror
Of the heart in rust of darkness And despair he casteth.

Dawn-bright wine to drink the season Is it when the night-tide
Evening's veil about the heavens' Sanctuary casteth.

Drink not with the city-censor; For thy wine he drinketh,
Ay, and stones into the winecup Then and there he casteth.

Lift thy head from the sun's crownal, If thy lot, o Hafiz,
On that moon-faced one thy fortune Tutelary casteth.