Classic Poem

Though fraught is the breeze with the scent of the rose And the season of joyance here is,
Beware lest thou drink to the clang of the harp, For the Mohtesib severe is.

But if of heaven to thee vouchsafed Be flagon and Friend, with reason
And circumspection I rede thee drink; For Fortune a trouble-cheer is.

The beaker of wine look thou conceal In the hanging sleeve of the patchcoat,
For, like to the eye of the flask, the time A shedder of blood, I fear, is.

With the tears of the eye from our gaberdine Let's wash the stains of the grapejuice,
For lo! this the season of soberness And abstinence austere is.

Yon high-reared vault of the firmament Is but a sieve blood-scatt'ring;
Perwíz's heart and Cyrus' crown The dropping of the Sphere is.

Look not for pleasance of life from that Inverted bowl's revolving,
For mixed with the dregs of yonder vat Its every whit of clear is.

Irác and Fars with thy sweet verse Thou'st captivated, Hafiz:
Come, for the turn now of Tebríz And time of Baghdad here is.