The sheen of the season of youth Again on the garden glows;
The nightingale, dulcet of note, Hath heard the glad news of the rose.

O wind of the East, if thou reach The younglings of meadow and lea,
At the foot of the cypress, the rose And the basil our homage depose.

The dust of the winehouse's door I'll sweep with mine eyelash, in thanks
For the amorous blandishing grace The maid of the Magians shows.

Make, make me not passion-distraught, Who head a-whirlam, o thou fair,
The moon at the full in a mall Of ambergris who dost enclose!

The railers that presently scoff At the dreg-draining crew when I note,
Religion, I fear, like to waste In the winehouse's traffic are those.

The friend of the men of God be; For in Noah his ark, of old time,
Was a handful of dust that no drop Did reck of the Flood, as it rose.

To him, whose last slumbering-stead Two handsful of earth is, say thou,
“What booteth thee raise to the skies Pavilions and porticoes?”

“Go forth of the house of the Sphere And seek thou not bread at its hand;
“For yon black-hearted niggard, the world, Still slayeth its guests in the close.”

Since thine, o my Canaanite moon, The kingship of Egypt's become,
The time for thee come is to bid Adieu to the prison of woes.

Once more hast thou tangled, my fair, Those musk-shedding ringlets of thine:
What evil design in the head. Of thy tresses thou harbour'st, God knows!

No tittle shalt thou apprehend Of the secrets of Being, if dazed
Thou be of the whirl of the Sphere, As round without ceasing it goes.

A treasure is Liberty's realm And the corner of quiet content,
Which heav'n, for himself with the sword To win, on no Sultan bestows.

Go, Hafiz, drink wine without stint; Make merry and be of good cheer;
But make not the Koran the snare Of imposture and fraud, as do those