Classic Poem

Thy body of the leaches' care For aye in need be not!
Thy tender being ever harmed Of Fate's misdeed be not!

Upon thy weal dependeth that Of all this world of ours;
God grant that sufferance to thee Of chance decreed be not!

Beauty of form and soul ensue The blessing of thy health:
Thine inward sad and grief-obscured Thine outward wede be not!

When Autumn cometh to despoil Life's fields, God grant its scathe
Wreaked on that lofty cypress-tree, Queen of the mead, be not!

Whereas thy beauty flowereth In splendour, possible
For hate or spite to enter in, With word or deed, be not!

May all, upon thy moonlike face Who look with evil eye,
Upon the fire of sorrow aught But wild rue-seed be not!

Of Hafiz' sugar-scatt'ring speech Seek healing for thine ill,
So that of rosewater for cure Or syrups need be not!