Arise! and fill a golden goblet up
Until the wine of pleasure overflow,
Before into thy skull’s pale empty cup
A grimmer Cup-bearer the dust shall throw.
Yea, to the Vale of Silence we must come;
Yet shall the flagon laugh and Heaven’s dome
Thrill with an answering echo ere we go!
Thou knowest that the riches of this field
Make no abiding, let the goblet’s fire
Consume the fleeting harvest Earth may yield!
Oh Cypress-tree! green home of Love’s sweet choir,
When I unto the dust I am have passed,
Forget thy former wantonness, and cast
Thy shadow o’er the dust of my desire.
Flow, bitter tears, and wash me clean! for they
Whose feet are set upon the road that lies
‘Twixt Earth and Heaven Thou shalt be pure,” they say,
“Before unto the pure thou lift thine eyes.”
Seeing but himself, the Zealot sees but sin;
Grief to the mirror of his soul let in,
Oh Lord, and cloud it with the breath of sighs!
No tainted eye shall gaze upon her face,
No glass but that of an unsullied heart
Shall dare reflect my Lady’s perfect grace.
Though like to snakes that from the herbage start,
Thy curling locks have wounded me full sore,
Thy red lips hold the power of the bezoar–
Ah, touch and heat me where I lie apart!
And when from her the wind blows perfume sweet,
Tear, Hafiz, like the rose, thy robe in two,
And cast thy rags beneath her flying feet,
To deck the place thy mistress passes through.
– Trans G. Bell