Classic Poem

This my love for thee no whim is, That, from mem'ry flown, shall go;
Nor my passion such as hither, Thither, fancy-blown, shall go.

Thine affection in my bosom, In my heart the love of thee,
With my mother's milk did enter And with life alone shall go.

Love's chagrin is an affliction, Which howe'er thou seek to salve,
Still from worse to worse increasing, Ever sharper grown, shall go.

First of lovers in the city, Whose lament for love and dole
Nightly to the sky ascendeth, Still to heav'n my moan shall go.

If my tears' full tide I suffer Flow into the Zíndehroud,
All to ruin, overflooded, Fars's plain corn-sown shall go.

Yesterday, amidst her tresses, Yonder fair one's cheek I saw,
As it were the moon enshrouded In a cloudy zone shall go.

“Shall I make,” quoth I, “beginning With a kiss?” “Nay, wait,” she said,
“Till the moon have passed the Scorpion And with face full shown shall go.”

Hafiz, if to the well-being Of her ruby lip thou drink,
Have a care thereof lest tidings To the carping foen shall go.