Ode 236

THE winds of March blow up the clouds of spring,

Heavy with flowers—O thou new-born year!

I, like thyself, am fain to dance and sing;

But where, O where

Shall I the money find for wine and string?

Out on my empty purse! Didst ever see

In any other spring such girls as those!

They have bright eyes for everyone but me:

Red little rose—

O for the money to buy one kiss from thee!

'T is an illiberal age—O thou blue sky,

For how much longer must I bear this shame!

Who ever had so lean a purse as I,

With such a name?

Could I but sell my honour—I could buy.

Yet maybe better fortune is on the way:

Last night I saw the true dawn on my knees,

As I for a great purse of gold did pray;

The Pleiades

Mean money in thy purse—the old wives say.

The rose's hundred thousand laughters ring

The garden through—a sweeter than herself

Hath she espied: no other bird doth sing

Like the sweet pelf—

A rich man 's in the garden, or a king.

Yet, Rose, what man hath made such subtle verse

To honour thee? Ah, who hath flushed with fame

That haughty cheek, and taught men to rehearse

Thy unknown name?

Enough of singing, HAFIZ! Fill thy purse.

HAFIZ, I know not who the arrow sped,

Yet blood drips from the pinions of thy song;

For each small word thy heart hath surely bled,

Silent and long,

And many tears it cost ere it was said.