Classic Poem

This my love for thee, my fair one, On what wise shall I assain?
Yea, how long shall I of sorrow For thy sake all night complain?

Long ago past hope of healing Is my frenzied heart become:
Peradventure, of thy tress-tip I may fashion it a chain.

Scope where shall I find and leisure, So the full perplexity,
Which I suffer for thy tress-tip, Once for all I may explain?

What I suffered in the season Of estrangement from thy sight;
'Twere impossible one letter Should the whole of it contain.

On my soul to look whenever I'm desirous, in mine eye
Still to conjure up the image Of thy lovely cheek I'm fain.

If I knew that thine enjoyment Should thereby to me betide,
Heart and faith would I surrender, Ay, and count the loss a gain.

Get thee gone from us, o preacher; Leave this idle prate of thine:
None am I who unto leasing Ear will any longer deign.

Of deliverance from lewdness, Hope, o Hafiz, is there none;
Since 'twas thus of Fate foreordered, Care and counsel are in vain.