Classic Poem

Come March-clouds are and the blowing Breezes of the new-born year;
Wine-gold I desire and minstrel Who shall say, “Behold, 'tis here!”

Goodly show the fair; but shamefast Am I for my empty purse.
How much longer must I suffer This shamefacedness, o sphere?

Dearth of grace there is: the water Of one's face one must not sell:
Wine and roses with the patchcoat's Price must buy the patchcoateer.

Yet, belike, some way shall Fortune Open up unto our need;
For I yesternight was praying And the true dawn did appear.

With an hundred thousand laughters Lip-lit, comes the garden rose,
As it were it smelt the fragrance Of a generous one anear.

In the topers' world, if rended Be a skirt, what matters it?
Nay, the wede of reputation Eke in twain behoveth shear.

Who such quaint conceits hath spoken Of thy ruby lip as I?
Who the like of what I've suffered from thy tress-tip e'er did hear?

Save the Sultan's justice question Of the love-opprest ones' case,
It behoveth the recluses Sever hope of ease and cheer.

Who at Hafiz' heart, I know not, Shot the deadly shaft; but this
Know I, that his blooming verses Drip with many a bloody tear.