Classic Poem

At dawntide, when the Orient's king His standards on the hill-tops pight,
My Friend upon the hopers' door Did with the hand of mercy smite.

When to the morning manifest It was how 'tis with Fortune's love,
It rose and laughed a goodly laugh At the conceit of men of might.

My fair one from her tresses loosed The knots and bound them on the hearts
Of lovers, when she rose to dance In the assembly yesternight.

My hands of righteousness I washed With my heart's blood that moment when
The sober unto drunkenness Her eye wine-measuring did cite.

What iron heart taught her this use Of roguery, that, when she first
Appeared, the way she stopped on those Who watch and wake till morning white?

My wretched heart a warrior-queen Desired and made for her forthright;
God guard it! On the very midst Of all the horsemen it did light.

For her cheek's lustre, how much blood We quaffed, how many lives we gave!
Yet, her end gained, she turned upon The soul-surrend'rers with despite.

How should a wool-clad patchcoateer, Like me, into his springes bring
That hair-mailed fair, whose eyelashes Outwar the champions in the fight?

My gaze intent upon the King's Felicity and fortune is:
Grant thou the wish of Hafiz' heart, Who cast for thee this omen bright!

Mensour the Conqueror, King of Kings, The Champion of the Folk and Faith,
Whose boundless liberalities To scorn the Spring-clouds laugh outright:

Since the fair hour when by his hand The winecup honoured was, the time,
Unto the topers' health and weal, The goblet plieth of delight.

From his gold-dropping scimitar The sun of victory flashed that day
When, like the star-consuming sun, Alone on thousands he did smite.

Continuance of his life and sway Ask of God's favour, heart; for heav'n,
By the duration of the days, Hath struck the coinage of his might.