XLIII
Zealot, censure not the toper, guileless though thou keep thy soul:
Certain 'tis that sins of others none shall write upon thy scroll.
Be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone;
All men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have sown.
Never of Eternal Mercy preach that I must yet despair;
Canst thou pierce the veil, and tell me who is ugly, who is fair?
Every one the Friend solicits, be he sober, quaff he wine;
Every place has love its tenant, be it or the mosque, or shrine.
From the still retreat of virtue not the first am I to roam,
For my father also quitted his eternal Eden home.
See this head, devout submission: bricks at many a vintner's door:
If my foe these words misconstrue—"Bricks and head!"—Say nothing more.
Fair though Paradise's garden, deign to my advice to yield:
Here enjoy the shading willow, and the border of the field.
Lean not on thy store of merits; know'st thou 'gainst thy name for aye
What the Plastic Pen indited, on the Unbeginning Day?
Háfiz, if thou grasp thy beaker
When the hour of death is nigh,
From the street where stands the tavern
Straight they'll bear thee to the sky.