Classic Poem

A heart, that is secret-discovering And Jemshid's cup of might hath,
No great concern for a signet-ring, A moment lost from sight, hath.

To Solomon's sealring give thou news Of glad and happy issue,
For the great Name cut off therefrom The hand of Satan's spite hath.

On down and mole of beggars base Bestow not the heart's treasure;
Nay, give it in hand to a kinglike one, That it in honour right hath.

Not every tree endureth 'gainst The tyranny of winter;
The slave of the cypress stout am I, That stableness of spright hath.

My heart, that of independence erst Boasted, an hundred traffics
Now, for thy tress-scent, with the winds That blow at morning-light, hath.

The season of mirth is come, when each, Like to the drowsed narcissus,
Six testers layeth at foot of the cup, If so much coin the wight hath.

From whom shall I seek the heart's desire? Since there's no charmer living
That usance of generosity And vision clear and bright hath.

Gold, like the rose, from the price of wine Withhold not now, or ever
The sense of the general thee in doubt Of many a foul unright hath.

Nay, fable not of the World Unseen; There's none its secret knoweth.
What sage accéss to this sanctuary, That's sealed from mortal sight, hath?

From Hafiz' monkish gaberdine What profit may be gotten?
We the Eternal seek and he In idols his delight hath.