Classic Poem

Now from the garden there breathe The breezes of Paradise,
My portion be joy-giving wine And Friend with the Houris' eyes!

Why boasts not the beggar to day Of kingship, whose banqueting hall
Is the marge of the field and whose tent The shade of the clouds of the skies?

The meadows are telling aloud The story of April and Spring:
The man who buys payment to come And scorns present cash is unwise.

With wine, then, come build up thy heart; For the course of this ruinous world
To nought, except bricks of our clay To make, its endeavour applies.

Good faith from the foe seek thou not; For never a twinkle he gets,
The torch of the cloister to light At the lamp of the temple who tries.

If black be the book of my deeds, Ne'er blame me, poor sot that I am:
Who knows in the lines of his skull What written of Destiny lies?

I rede thee, withhold not thy feet From Hafiz's funeral train;
For, though he be sunken in sin, He fareth to Paradise.