Classic Poem

Why is it my cypress unto the meads, Now Spring is here, inclineth not?
That she to the rose and the jessamine Of the new-born year inclineth not?

Since unto the China of that her tress My vagrant heart departed,
From that far clime to its native land The rogue to recur inclineth not.

My heart, with the hope of thine union dazed, No longer the mate of the soul is;
My soul, of its wish for thy stead, to serve, At the body's spur, inclineth not.

To the bow of her brows I offer up My humble supplications;
But strained and strait are its horns; and so To me its ear inclineth not.

To me, of her browlock yesterday Complaining, quoth she, jesting,
" This crookbacked blackamoor unto me Myself its ear inclineth not. "

Now by the breeze in many a curl The tress of the violet's broken,
What heart, like mine, to call to mind Yon pact-breaker inclineth not?

Though my silver-shanked skinker nought but dregs Should skink us, who his body
All mouth, like the goblet of wine, to make, For love of her, inclineth not?

The breeze is a brayer of ambergris: From thy pure skirt how is it
The earth of the violet-bed to turn To musk and myrrh inclineth not?

I marvel how, for the scent of thy skirt, The East wind, as thou passest,
The dust of thy passage-way to turn To musk and myrrh inclineth not.

The water of this my cheek spill not; For never pearls of Aden
The boons of the clouds make, if mine eye Still to concur inclineth not.

Slain of thy glances Hafiz is, Who hearkened not to counsel;
Nay, worthy of death is whosoe'er Advice to hear inclineth not.