Ode 121

Now that the rose is risen from the dead,
And, at her feet upon the emerald lawn,
The violet hangs in worship her lowly head,
To sound of singing drink the cup of dawn,
And kiss the Saki's cheeks a deeper red.

Ah! never in the time of roses be
Without thy love and wine and the soft strings;
The rose's week is short—as short-lived we;
Yea! hardly longer than a wild-bird sings,
Or rose is red, is our felicity.

See how the earth is spangled like a sky
With starry belts of constellated flowers,
Responsive to the vernal stars on high;
The tulip flames unquenched amid the showers,
And the enamelled earth with heaven doth vie.

In the rose-garden Nimrod lights his fires—
Furnace of flowers for Father Abraham's feet;
Cast in the oven, the patriarch, said our sires,
Turned the live coals into a garden sweet:
Good Magians, drink we as our law requires.

Old tales—with them O bother not thy head!
And where the lost tribes went them let us leave—
Aad and Them oud;—O little sweet-breathed maid,
That tale of Jesus I can well believe—
How His sweet breath was wont to raise the dead.

And that old tale of Eden seems quite true,
Since Spring has turned the world to Paradise,
With rose and lily thick and all this dew:
Alas! so soon the fairy picture flies;
Days in the garden, why are ye so few!

Who to you bird can listen singing there,
And doubt 't is David in his heavenly throat?
Or see you rose riding upon the air,
And forget Solomon, who, our fathers wrote,
Upon the winds rode like a gossamer!

Asef grand vizier was to Solomon:
Magians, come drink to great Imáddedin,
The Asef of the age; the paragon
Of patrons unto HAFIZ hath he been—
A prince of largesse past comparison.