Ode 34

WHEN thus I sit with roses in my breast,
Wine in my hand, and the Beloved kind;
I ask no more—the world can take the rest.
Even the Sultan's self is, to my mind,
On such a planetary night as this,
Compared with me a veritable slave.

No need of candles where my loved one is!
Is not the moon of her bright cheek at full?
Such eyes would fill with light the very grave.
No need of perfumes! the Beloved's hair
Wafts such a fragrance to the feasting sense
That all this vinous tavern smells of myrrh
And musk and ambergris and frankincense.

In this our order of the Magian creed*
Wine lawful is, but, were thy face away—
O rose that hath a cypress for thy stem!—
We should on no account be drunk to-day.
Sweet is yon sound of ghittern and of reed,
My head is all a-humming with soft strings,
And my heart full with the sad sound of them.

Talk not of other sweetness, love, to me,
The vulgar sweets and sugars of the world,
My only hope of sweetness is in thee,
And on that lip indifferently curled—
Saucy alike to beggars and to kings.

Beloved, blame him not if, for relief,
The sanctuary of his ruined heart,
Nursing the precious treasure of his grief,
Unto the kindly tavern HAFIZ brings;
Nor talk of shame to HAFIZ—for his part,
Nowise ashamed is HAFIZ of his shame;
That which the world accounts a spotless name
HAFIZ, indeed, would be ashamed to bear.
Wine-bibber call him, and adulterer!
Go on! what else! he will not say thee nay.
Is Shiraz then so innocent a place
That none but HAFIZ ever goes astray
After the wine-cup and a pretty face?
Summon the Censor, he who takes such care
Of us poor fools—he 's always running after
Women and wine—the very same as we;
Be sure he also loves good wine and laughter.

Nay, Sufi, go thy ways, let HAFIZ be!
To-night the never-ending fast is done,
And the great feast comes in with minstrelsy:
Here shall we sit, until the rising sun
Glitters on rose and jasmine—I and she.