Ode 42

MY hermitage the tavern is—
Ah! such a pietist am I!
My abbot is the taverner—
Yea! such a pietist am I!
And every morning thus I pray:
Give us the red wine day by day,
God grant me too the sight of her!
Thus pray I to the taverner
Each morning at the break of day—
Such, such a pietist am I!

My matins are the songs I make—
So penitent at morn am I!—
Of sorrow for the night before.
So early is my heart awake,
That, long before the harp is heard,
Long ere the open tavern door,
I waken the still sleeping bird—
So early is my heart awake!—
With sound of my repentant tears.
So sweet the sound in mine own ears
Of mine own sorrow, that ere long
My heart is healed with mine own song;
And ere the middle of the day—
So early was my heart awake!—
My sorrow is all sung away.

Beggar and king to me are one:
So very beautiful is she,
That any beggar who shall fling
Upon her doorstep in a dream
Shall surely seem to me a king.
Whatever else I do or seem,
Only one thought possesses me,
In mosque or tavern—it is she;
Living or dead, or damned—'t is she;
So very beautiful is she.

Better the beggar at thy feet
Than any king on any throne;
To be thy slave is very sweet;
The torture of thy tyranny
Riches and honour are to me;
Abased upon thy threshold-stone
I seem uplifted past the sun,
And none save death shall strike my tent
Of vigilant love before thy door.
Too well I know the fault is none
Of thine—'t is mine for loving thee;
HAFIZ shall hold thee innocent
Before High God, and yet must he
Love thee for ever and more and more.