Classic Poem

The secret of the love of thee In this our brain still turneth.
Behold, how many a thing in this Our head insane still turneth!

If in thy tress-tip's mallet-crook A man his heart adventure,
Certes, ball-wise, from head to foot Awhirl, the swain still turneth.

Though that heart-charmer cruelly And falsely with us dealeth,
Natheless, our heart, to hope and faith True, in her train still turneth.

For heav'n's oppression and the rage Of Time, the shirt of patience
Upon my body to a vest, Rended in twain, still turneth.

My wretched body, lean and weak, Is as the new moon's crescent,
Which, for a pointing-stock to men, In heaven's plain still turneth.

This many a day, sans help and hope, The bulbul of our nature
For sev'rance from that rose-garden, Her cheek, in vain still turneth.

How often shall I bid thee, heart, Ensue not lust and passion:
For this an air is that to sin And very bane still turneth.

For love of thee, o tulip-cheek And cypress-shape, how many
An one, like us, with heart distraught And whirling brain, still turneth!

Hafiz' sick heart at thy street-end, East-Wind-like, is a dweller
And there, in hope of solacement, To ease its pain, still turneth.