Classic Poem

I fear me lest our tears Veil-renders for our woe be,
Our pain the talking-stock Of all men, high and low, be.

Stones in the stead (they say) Of patience turn to rubies:
In liver's blood alone Can they transfigured so be.

In strait amaze am I For th' arrogance of rivals;
Honoured, o Lord, I pray, Let not the rascal foe be!

Seeing the stubborn pride That in thy cypress-head is,
How in this girdlestead Shall my short hand e'ermo be?

From every nook I launch The shafts of supplication,
So one effective may, Of all that leave the bow, be.

That court imperial, Whereto as moon thou servest,
Its door-dust lovers' heads, That still its thresholds strow, be!

By thy love's alchemy, My cheek's grown gold; yea, truly,
Gold, by thy grace's spell, Become the clods below be.

Full many traits of grace Behove, not beauty only,
In who accepted will Of those that see and know be.

I'll to the winehouse go, Weeping and craving succour;
For there for me from grief Deliv'rance shall, I trow, be.

Soul, to the charmer tell Our tale; but on such fashion
That it not borne abroad Of all the winds that blow be.

Be patient, o my heart; Nurse not chagrin; for evening
Shall morning grow at last And night with dawn aglow be.

If sorrow on thee fall One day, be not strait-hearted;
Nay, give God thanks, lest heaped Upon thee woe on woe be.

When, Hafiz, in thy hand The muskpod of her tress is,
Be dumb, lest of the East The tale borne high and low be.

Lo, with my mother's milk, The love of thee hath entered
My head and heart and there Shall, till from me life go, be.

From out the tomb, his head, Thy foot to kiss, shall Hafiz
Uplift, if trod of thee The weeds, that o'er him grow, be.