Classic Poem

Surely those are not thy cheeks which thy raven tresses cover!
Rather these are fresh shoots of the hiacynth lying amongst roses;
Long has been my search for thee, at last fortune has favoured me,
Such a mistress have I found that all men's tongues are in her praise.
Was it Kais or Wamak? Was it Farhad or Khusru?
All who knew love's troubles, a thousand blessings on each.
Mortals are but fleeting, there are none but those remaining
Whose names amidst this passing world are told in future stories.
Tales of others! What are they? To thyself they warning give.
Look thou at the candle, how it weeps at its own laughter!
See then, wheresoe'er I be, in whatever part I wander,
Cut from thy dark tresses lie these locks upon my heart.