Ode 104

THE Abbot of the Wine-House for thy friend,
Thou shalt have peace and pleasure without end;
So gracious he to all our vinous race,
In common gratitude we all abase
Our heads before him on the tavern floor—
It were superfluous to praise him more.
All the old fables men have ever told
Of Heaven's High Mansion builded all of gold
Pointed to this our Palace of the Vine,
Home of the ruddy daughter of the grape.
Misers for gold and silver sourly scrape,
But we of generous heart spend the red wine—
Misers and spendthrifts we of the red wine.

The wine-house garden is so fair a place,
So fresh the running stream, so soft the air,
I am content to sit a lifetime there.

O'er each man's brow God ran his pen of Fate;
We read the writing when it is too late.
With hidden treasure lurks the hidden snake.
Honour no man for birth, but his own sake;
Yea, honour him according to his deeds.
Whoso with understanding HAFIZ reads
Knows that he striveth ever, night and day,
After the good deed and the perfect way.