Classic Poem

Bring, wind of the East, an thou chance By the country to fare of the Friend,
A waft from the ambergris tress And the musk-scented hair of the Friend!

By her life, I will pour out my soul As off'ring of thanks for the boon,
An somewhat of news from the land To-me-ward thou bear of the Friend!

And if it should chance that accéss To her presence to thee be denied,
Bring a handful of dust for mine eyes From the threshold and stair of the Friend!

Far be it from beggars like me To ask her enjoyment! Enough
If in slumber the semblant I see Of the visage so fair of the Friend!

My pinecone-shaped heart for desire, Like the aspen, still trembles and quakes
For regret of the pinetree-like shape And the cypress-like air of the Friend.

Albeit the Loved One no jot Of store by us setteth, withal,
Not a hair, though the world were its price, From the head would we spare of the Friend!

What profiteth it if his heart From the bondage of sorrow be free,
Since Hafiz, poor wretch, is the slave And the bondman fore'er of the Friend?