At dawn, when the wind of the East The scent of the soul's delight taketh,
The mead, for the soft of the air, At Paradise self to slight taketh;
The thousandfold wafts of the rose Weave veils o'er the sward of the meadow;
Horizon the rose-garden's hue, For the glow of the morning-light, taketh;
The clang of the harp on such wise To the cup of the morning inviteth
That the way to the Magians' door The cloister-bound anchorite taketh;
The King of the Sphere, with the sword Of the dawn and the mace of th' horizon,
The world, when, his face before, he His buckler of gold hath dight, taketh;
Aloft in yon high-vaulted dome Cerulean, the golden-winged falcon,
The sky's tiercel-royal, its nest And place, in the crow's despite, taketh;
To the banqueting-hall of the sward Go; sweet 'tis to see how the tulip
The Redbud and eglantine's cup To mimic with red and white taketh.
How cometh to pass that the rose Her cheek in the meadows displayeth?
What fire such effect on the soul Of the bird of the end of night taketh?
What radiance is it the lamp Of the morning still kindleth to splendour?
What cresset is that from whose blaze The candle of heaven light taketh?
Excepting in Hafiz's head The thought be of kingship, how is it
That he, with the sword of the tongue, The world-all, to left and right, taketh?
Behold the East wind, how it still, Like the whoremonging toper, each moment
The lip of the rose and the tress Of the basil, in middle flight, taketh!
Of oneness of essence and form Still varying, see, from each rosebud,
That bloweth, ensamples and proofs An hundred the sage's sight taketh.
I'm still in conjecture, whose breath This blessed breath is, by whose auspice
This darksome dust-heap of the world New fire in the dawning white taketh.
Why is it yon circle-shaped sphere Me still, like the point of the compass
Amidward an hundredfold ring Of sorrow and care and fright taketh?
My innermost heart unto none I open; for me it is better;
For Fortune is jealous and out Of season to sudden spite taketh
Whoe'er, like the candle, himself In secret-divulging engageth,
The point of Fate's scissors his tongue, The candle-wick like at night, taketh.
That moon-visaged skinker of mine, Where is she, the maid, who, of kindness
In hand the full winecup for me, Half-drunk with her charms' delight, taketh?
Who bringeth me news of the Friend And after, a cup full of wine,
To the cheek of the lovesome Belov'd And her gladness a health to plight, taketh?
The minstrel, the usance of song Who plieth in this our assembly,
The mode of Irác whiles and whiles Ispahán on the lute to smite taketh.
The Sheen of the Face of God's grace, Sheikh Abou Ishác, he, the King,
In whose footsteps auspicious the land The rose-garden's beauty bright taketh;
Forsooth, an Iskender he is, In whose courts whoso dwelleth, like Khizr,
Life etern, from the grace of the dust Of his doorway, the benedight, taketh.
Whenever he fareth aloft To the heaven of lordship, the Sultan
His stead, at the first of his strides, At once on the Polestar's height taketh.
The lamp and the eye of the clan Of Mehmóud, from the flash of whose falchion,
When bared in the battle-field, fire Ten-tongued on the foe in flight taketh;
A billow of blood to the moon Upmounteth, when he the sword draweth;
Heav'n's Arrow he reacheth, what time In hand he his bow of might taketh.
The bride of the Orient doth well, For shame of his luminous wisdom,
That, leaving the East, she her way To Morocco (The West) at night taketh.
So great is thy glory and grace, That whoso thy bondman becometh,
For rank high-uplifted, a hold On the Gemini's belt of light taketh.
From Mercury's sphere unto thee Come “Well may he fare!” 's by the thousand,
When the fashion and form of the hest Of “Be and it was” thy spright taketh.
The Lancebearer still with the spear Thy haters and enviers smiteth:
His weapon in hand, night and morn, Forsooth, to this end, the Knight taketh.
The sky, when it seëth thy steed Its graces, bride-fashion, displaying,
The Straw-stealers' crown for its feet A litter o'er mean and slight taketh.
The somewhat of stress aforetime Thou hast suffered shall bring thee fair fortune;
For Jupiter's ordinance still Its governance by this rite taketh.
In proving thee after this wise, The purpose of Fortune is but
That of discipline's pureness serene The ímpress thy heart contrite taketh.
Nay, but for this cause is the rank Of the Book of all Books all-surpassing
That Time of its worth the assay To the utmost extreme of might taketh.
The champion in wisdom and wit Is he who, on every occasion,
Considereth firstly and then The way which he deemeth right taketh.
Assured from the bitter of grief And affliction is every man's palate
In mouth who the sugar of praise Of thee both by day and night taketh.
He only hath profit of life Who, in every betidement soever,
Himself first bethinketh and then The way which he deemeth right taketh.
No cause when he seëth for war, His hand to the winecup he setteth;
When season of action it is, The life-reaving sword the wight taketh.
Avert not thy visage, in stress, From hope of the long-hidden favours
Of Fortune; for still the hard bone The marrow full sweet for site taketh.
Nay, sugar by length of durésse Perfection of sweetness acquireth;
Which first its abode in the strait Of the cane and the ass-pack tight taketh.
E'en there, where from left and from right The flood of vicissitude cometh,
So needs to the side of the way Who fain would be safe his flight taketh,
What mattereth it, be the case What it may, to the firm-stablished mountain,
Though the storm-swollen torrent, with waves Like oceans, the heaven's height taketh?
Though proudly thine enemy go And hold his head high in vainglory,
Be thou of good cheer; for conceit The rein of the losel's spright taketh.
Yea, slander and ill though he speak 'Gainst the due of this household of fortune;
In substance and children and wife, Requital at last the wight taketh.
Long, long be the term of thy life! Thy fortune a God-given boon is,
Which both upon men and on Jinn Effect, for the soul's delight, taketh.
The Chief of the Kings of the Word Is Hafiz; and so he the horse-course
Of speech, with the Dhóulficar sword Of poesy, day and night, taketh.
The mead, for the soft of the air, At Paradise self to slight taketh;
The thousandfold wafts of the rose Weave veils o'er the sward of the meadow;
Horizon the rose-garden's hue, For the glow of the morning-light, taketh;
The clang of the harp on such wise To the cup of the morning inviteth
That the way to the Magians' door The cloister-bound anchorite taketh;
The King of the Sphere, with the sword Of the dawn and the mace of th' horizon,
The world, when, his face before, he His buckler of gold hath dight, taketh;
Aloft in yon high-vaulted dome Cerulean, the golden-winged falcon,
The sky's tiercel-royal, its nest And place, in the crow's despite, taketh;
To the banqueting-hall of the sward Go; sweet 'tis to see how the tulip
The Redbud and eglantine's cup To mimic with red and white taketh.
How cometh to pass that the rose Her cheek in the meadows displayeth?
What fire such effect on the soul Of the bird of the end of night taketh?
What radiance is it the lamp Of the morning still kindleth to splendour?
What cresset is that from whose blaze The candle of heaven light taketh?
Excepting in Hafiz's head The thought be of kingship, how is it
That he, with the sword of the tongue, The world-all, to left and right, taketh?
Behold the East wind, how it still, Like the whoremonging toper, each moment
The lip of the rose and the tress Of the basil, in middle flight, taketh!
Of oneness of essence and form Still varying, see, from each rosebud,
That bloweth, ensamples and proofs An hundred the sage's sight taketh.
I'm still in conjecture, whose breath This blessed breath is, by whose auspice
This darksome dust-heap of the world New fire in the dawning white taketh.
Why is it yon circle-shaped sphere Me still, like the point of the compass
Amidward an hundredfold ring Of sorrow and care and fright taketh?
My innermost heart unto none I open; for me it is better;
For Fortune is jealous and out Of season to sudden spite taketh
Whoe'er, like the candle, himself In secret-divulging engageth,
The point of Fate's scissors his tongue, The candle-wick like at night, taketh.
That moon-visaged skinker of mine, Where is she, the maid, who, of kindness
In hand the full winecup for me, Half-drunk with her charms' delight, taketh?
Who bringeth me news of the Friend And after, a cup full of wine,
To the cheek of the lovesome Belov'd And her gladness a health to plight, taketh?
The minstrel, the usance of song Who plieth in this our assembly,
The mode of Irác whiles and whiles Ispahán on the lute to smite taketh.
The Sheen of the Face of God's grace, Sheikh Abou Ishác, he, the King,
In whose footsteps auspicious the land The rose-garden's beauty bright taketh;
Forsooth, an Iskender he is, In whose courts whoso dwelleth, like Khizr,
Life etern, from the grace of the dust Of his doorway, the benedight, taketh.
Whenever he fareth aloft To the heaven of lordship, the Sultan
His stead, at the first of his strides, At once on the Polestar's height taketh.
The lamp and the eye of the clan Of Mehmóud, from the flash of whose falchion,
When bared in the battle-field, fire Ten-tongued on the foe in flight taketh;
A billow of blood to the moon Upmounteth, when he the sword draweth;
Heav'n's Arrow he reacheth, what time In hand he his bow of might taketh.
The bride of the Orient doth well, For shame of his luminous wisdom,
That, leaving the East, she her way To Morocco (The West) at night taketh.
So great is thy glory and grace, That whoso thy bondman becometh,
For rank high-uplifted, a hold On the Gemini's belt of light taketh.
From Mercury's sphere unto thee Come “Well may he fare!” 's by the thousand,
When the fashion and form of the hest Of “Be and it was” thy spright taketh.
The Lancebearer still with the spear Thy haters and enviers smiteth:
His weapon in hand, night and morn, Forsooth, to this end, the Knight taketh.
The sky, when it seëth thy steed Its graces, bride-fashion, displaying,
The Straw-stealers' crown for its feet A litter o'er mean and slight taketh.
The somewhat of stress aforetime Thou hast suffered shall bring thee fair fortune;
For Jupiter's ordinance still Its governance by this rite taketh.
In proving thee after this wise, The purpose of Fortune is but
That of discipline's pureness serene The ímpress thy heart contrite taketh.
Nay, but for this cause is the rank Of the Book of all Books all-surpassing
That Time of its worth the assay To the utmost extreme of might taketh.
The champion in wisdom and wit Is he who, on every occasion,
Considereth firstly and then The way which he deemeth right taketh.
Assured from the bitter of grief And affliction is every man's palate
In mouth who the sugar of praise Of thee both by day and night taketh.
He only hath profit of life Who, in every betidement soever,
Himself first bethinketh and then The way which he deemeth right taketh.
No cause when he seëth for war, His hand to the winecup he setteth;
When season of action it is, The life-reaving sword the wight taketh.
Avert not thy visage, in stress, From hope of the long-hidden favours
Of Fortune; for still the hard bone The marrow full sweet for site taketh.
Nay, sugar by length of durésse Perfection of sweetness acquireth;
Which first its abode in the strait Of the cane and the ass-pack tight taketh.
E'en there, where from left and from right The flood of vicissitude cometh,
So needs to the side of the way Who fain would be safe his flight taketh,
What mattereth it, be the case What it may, to the firm-stablished mountain,
Though the storm-swollen torrent, with waves Like oceans, the heaven's height taketh?
Though proudly thine enemy go And hold his head high in vainglory,
Be thou of good cheer; for conceit The rein of the losel's spright taketh.
Yea, slander and ill though he speak 'Gainst the due of this household of fortune;
In substance and children and wife, Requital at last the wight taketh.
Long, long be the term of thy life! Thy fortune a God-given boon is,
Which both upon men and on Jinn Effect, for the soul's delight, taketh.
The Chief of the Kings of the Word Is Hafiz; and so he the horse-course
Of speech, with the Dhóulficar sword Of poesy, day and night, taketh.
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