The good news is come that Spring's At hand, with its verdure fine:
An if the allowance come, We'll spend it in roses and wine.

Upriseth the birds' song: where Is the wine-jack? The nightingale
Waileth: who teareth the veil From the face of the eglantine?

The patchcoat, red as the rose, I'll burn; for the vintner old
Will purchase it not at the price Of a draught of the juice of the vine.

A rose from the moonlike cheek Of the cupbearer cull to day;
For, see, round the garden's face There sprouteth the violet's line.

Thy foot in Love's land set not, Except with a guide of the road;
For lost is the man without guide Who fareth the way of this shrine.

What savour shall he, who ne'er The peach of a loveling's chin
Hath tasted, find in the fruits Of Paradise the divine?

The cupbearer's languorous looks Have ravished my heart from my hand,
That so unto others to speak Or hearken no power is mine.

Yea, many the marvels are, O friend, of the way of love!
The lion, in this wild waste, Is scared by the wild fawn's eyne.

Of anguish complain thou not; For know that, in questing's way,
Those only to easance win Who suffer without repine.

Ho, succour, 'fore God, thou guide Of the way to the sanctuary!
For lo! to Love's desert bound There is not nor yet confine.

Come, drink thou of wine and give To Hafiz the cup of gold;
Their sins to the Soufis hath Remitted the king benign.

No rose from the garth of thy grace Hath Hafiz culled: 't would seem
No breeze of humanity O'erbloweth that mead of thine.

Spring fleeteth: come, succour me, O justice-dispensing One!
The season's at end and yet Hath Hafiz not tasted wine.