Classic Poem

The wineseller's sins, If he duly the winebibbers' need doth,
God pardoneth, yea, And sorrow from him and his seed doth.

Give, skinker, the wine In the measure of right, lest the beggar
Feel envy; for that A worldful of misery breed doth.

Strike, minstrel, the lute! Without term appointed, none dieth;
And whoso this saw Denieth default 'gainst the Creed doth.

O sage, whether ease Or trouble betide thee, ascribe it
To none but to God, Who only whatever's decreed doth.

In a workshop, wherein No way is for reason and learning,
What is it weak wit, Presuming the riddle to read, doth?

Yet, sure, from these woes Shall come the glad news of assurance,
If the pilgrim the due Of good faith to the compact agreed doth.

For us, who are racked With Love's pangs and the woes of cropsickness,
Her lip or sheer wine New health to our hearts all a-bleed doth.

In lust after wine, Life's gone and with love Hafiz burneth;
Where's one Jesus-breathed, That raising-again, in our need, doth?