Classic Poem

Yesternight the angels knocking At the winehouse-door I spied;
Adam's clay in cups they moulded, Kneading it on every side.

With dust-sitting me the dwellers Of the realms behind the veil,
Pure ones of the world angelic, Wine intoxicating plied.

Heav'n could not endure the fardel Of the deposite of love
And the lot on me, poor madman, Cast the burden to abide.

God be thanked for reconcilement Her and me between, for which
Houris, dancing, God with beakers Of thankoff'ring magnified!

How should we, with hundred harvests Of temptation tried, not stray,
From the path since wakeful Adam With one wheatcorn They awried?

Marry, hold excused the wrangles Of the two-and-seventy sects;
For that, when the Truth they saw not, They the door of fiction tried.

That no fire is for the candle, In the gleam whereof it laughs;
Fire that is, unto the harvest Of the moth which is applied.

The recluses' hearts a-bleeding By Love's subtlety are set,
Like that mole wherewith the Loved One's Cheek the Fates have beautified.

None the face-veil hath, like Hafiz, From the cheek of thought withdrawn,
Since the comb unto the tress-tip First they set of Speech's bride.