Hafez

With last night’s wine still singing in my head, I sought the tavern at the break of day, Though half the world was still asleep in bed; The harp and flute were up and in full swing, And a most pleasant morning sound made they; Already was the wine-cup on the wing. ‘Reason,’ said I, ‘’t is past the time to start, If you would reach your daily destination, The holy city of intoxication.’ So did I pack him off, and he depart With a stout flask for fellow-traveller. Left to myself, the tavern-wench I spied, And sought to win her love by speaking fair; Alas! she turned upon me, scornful-eyed, And mocked my foolish hopes of winning her. Said she, her arching eyebrows like a bow: ‘Thou mark for all the shafts of evil tongues! Thou shalt not round my middle clasp me so, Like my good girdle – not for all thy songs! – So long as thou in all created things Seest but thyself the centre and the end. Go spread thy dainty nets for other wings – Too high the Anca’s nest for thee, my friend.’ Then took I shelter from that stormy sea In the good ark of wine; yet, woe is me! Saki and comrade and minstrel all by turns, She is of maidens the compendium Who my poor heart in such a fashion spurns. Self, HAFIZ, self! That thou must overcome! Hearken the wisdom of the tavern-daughter! Vain little baggage – well, upon my word! Thou fairy figment made of clay and water, As busy with thy beauty as a bird. Well, HAFIZ, Life’s a riddle – give it up: There is no answer to it but this cup.

Last night, as half asleep I dreaming lay, Half naked came she in her little shift, With tilted glass, and verses on her lips; Narcissus-eyes all shining for the fray, Filled full of frolic to her wine-red lips, Warm as a dewy rose, sudden she slips Into my bed – just in her little shift. Said she, half naked, half asleep, half heard, With a soft sigh betwixt each lazy word, ‘Oh my old lover, do you sleep or wake!’ And instant I sat upright for her sake, And drank whatever wine she poured for me – Wine of the tavern, or vintage it might be Of Heaven’s own vine: he surely were a churl Who refused wine poured out by such a girl, A double traitor he to wine and love. Go to, thou puritan! the gods above Ordained this wine for us, but not for thee; Drunkards we are by a divine decree, Yea, by the special privilege of heaven Foredoomed to drink and foreordained forgiven. Ah! HAFIZ, you are not the only man Who promised penitence and broke down after; For who can keep so hard a promise, man, With wine and woman brimming o’er with laughter! O knotted locks, filled like a flower with scent, How have you ravished this poor penitent!

For years my heart inquired of me Where Jamshid's sacred cup might be, And what was in its own possession It asked from strangers, constantly; Begging the pearl that's slipped its shell From lost souls wandering by the sea. Last night I took my troubles to The Magian sage whose keen eyes see A hundred answers in the wine Whose cup he, laughing, showed to me. I questioned him, "When was this cup That shows the world's reality Handed to you?" He said, "The day Heaven's vault of lapis lazuli Was raised, and marvelous things took place By Intellect's divine decree, And Moses' miracles were made And Sameri's apostasy." He added then, "That friend they hanged High on the looming gallows tree— His sin was that he spoke of things Which should be pondered secretly, The page of truth his heart enclosed Was annotated publicly. But if the Holy Ghost once more Should lend his aid to us we'd see Others perform what Jesus did— Since in his heartsick anguish he Was unaware that God was there And called His name out ceaselessly." I asked him next, "And beauties' curls That tumble down so sinuously, What is their meaning? Whence do they come?" "Hafez," the sage replied to me, "It's your distracted, lovelorn heart That asks these questions constantly."