VI
My heart no longer brooks my hand: sages, aid for God my woe!
Else, alas! my secret-deep soon the curious world must know.
The bark we steer has stranded: O breeze auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the Friend we love so well.
The ten days' favor of the Sphere—magic is; a tale which lies!
Thou who wouldst befriend thy friends, seize each moment ere it flies.
At night, 'mid wine and flowers, the bulbul tuned his song:
"Bring thou the morning bowl: prepare, ye drunken throng!"
Sikander's mirror, once so famed, is the wine-filled cup: behold
All that haps in Dárá's realm glassed within its wondrous mould.[7]
O bounteous man, since Heaven sheds o'er thee blessings mild,
Inquire, one day at least, how fares Misfortune's child.
What holds in peace this twofold world, let this twofold sentence show:
"Amity to every friend, courtesy to every foe."
Upon the way of honor, impeded was my range;
If this affect thee, strive my destiny to change.
That bitter, which the Súfi styled "Mother of all woes that be,"[8]
Seems, with maiden's kisses weighed, better and more sweet to me.
Seek drunkenness and pleasure till times of strait be o'er:
This alchemy of life can make the beggar Kore.[9]
Submit; or burn thou taper-like e'en from jealousy o'er-much:
Adamant no less than wax, melts beneath that charmer's touch.
When fair ones talk in Persian, the streams of life out-well:
This news to pious Pirs, my Sákí, haste to tell.
Since Háfiz, not by his own choice,
This his wine-stained cowl did win,
Shaikh, who hast unsullied robes,
Hold me innocent of sin.[10]
Arrayed in youthful splendor, the orchard smiles again;
News of the rose enraptures the bulbul of sweet strain.
Breeze, o'er the meadow's children, when thy fresh fragrance blows,
Salute for me the cypress, the basil, and the rose.
If the young Magian[11] dally with grace so coy and fine,
My eye shall bend their fringes to sweep the house of wine.
O thou whose bat of amber hangs o'er a moon below,[12]
Deal not to me so giddy, the anguish of a blow.
I fear that tribe of mockers who topers' ways impeach,
Will part with their religion the tavern's goal to reach.
To men of God be friendly: in Noah's ark was earth[13]
Which deemed not all the deluge one drop of water worth.
As earth, two handfuls yielding, shall thy last couch supply,
What need to build thy palace, aspiring to the sky?
Flee from the house of Heaven, and ask not for her bread:
Her goblet black shall shortly her every guest strike dead.[14]
To thee, my Moon of Kanaan, the Egyptian throne pertains;
At length has come the moment that thou shouldst quit thy chains.
I know not what dark projects those pointed locks design,
That once again in tangles their musky curls combine.
Be gay, drink wine, and revel;
But not, like others, care,
O Háfiz, from the Koran
To weave a wily snare!