Classic Poem

The wine-cup in my hand, Methought, in slumber's feigning, was:
Interpreting ensued And “Fortune fair” th' explaining was.

Affliction forty years And grief I bore, till latterly
I found that in wine's hand Of two years old th' assaining was.

That musk-pod of desire, Which I of Fortune sought, within
The plait of yonder fair One's tress, grisamber-raining, was.

Cropsickness for chagrin O'ercame me in the dawntide-hour;
But Fortune kind became And wine in cup remaining was.

My heart's blood I devour: But what availeth murmuring?
Our portion thus decreed, By Heaven's foreordaining, was.

Wailing and seeking aid, Unto the winehouse I repair;
For there my solace still For sighing and complaining was.

Love whoso never sowed, Nor culled a rose from loveliness,
The tulip's guardian still Against the wind's constraining was.

I passed the rose-bed by, What while that, in the morning tide,
The bird of dawn engaged In wailing and complaining was.

There saw we Hafiz' verse In the King's praise, whereof more worth
Than tractates hundredfold Each couplet heart-entraining was;

(That king, in onset swift, To whom, upon the battle-day,
The least of the gazelles The sun in Leo reigning was;)

The rose upon her scroll Had written Hafiz' canticles,
Whose every trait more worth Than all books' else containing was.

The garden-breezes fire Into the bulbul's bosom cast,
For yonder hidden brand, The tulip's heart that staining was.