Him, unto whom the goblet Of wine clear red They give,
Place in the Holiest Holy's Withinmost stead They give.

Rail not at toss-pots, Soufi; For, from Creation's Prime,
Love's secret to the toper, In tavern bred, They give.

Wine, boy, rose-hued, musk-scented, Bring, 'spite the folk of sense;
Since still annoy to wastril And fuddlehead they give.

Of life's delight no profit Hath he, to whom to-day
Promise of some to-morrow, In heav'n foresaid, they give.

Hafiz forswears the gardens Of Heaven, so to him
In thine enjoyment's precinct A covert spread They give.