FROM the garden of Heaven a western breeze

Blows through the leaves of my garden of earth;

With a love like a huri I'ld take mine ease,

And wine! bring me wine, the giver of mirth!

To-day the beggar may boast him a king,

His banqueting-hall is the ripening field,

And his tent the shadow that soft clouds fling.

A tale of April the meadows unfold—

Ah, foolish for future credit to slave,

And to leave the cash of the present untold!

Build a fort with wine where thy heart may brave

The assault of the world; when thy fortress falls,

The relentless victor shall knead from thy dust

The bricks that repair its crumbling walls.

Trust not the word of that foe in the fight!

Shall the lamp of the synagogue lend its flame

To set thy monastic torches alight?

Drunken am I, yet place not my name

In the Book of Doom, nor pass judgment on it;

Who knows what the secret finger of Fate

Upon his own white forehead has writ!

And when the spirit of Hafiz has fled,

Follow his bier with a tribute of sighs;

Though the ocean of sin has closed o'er his head,

He may find a place in God's Paradise.