Part 5

She that has stolen my heart from me, How does she wield her empery? Paints and adorns and scents her too, Fresh and afresh and new and new!

Wind of the dawn that passest by, Swift to the street of my fairy hie, Whisper the tale of Hafiz true, Fresh and afresh and new and new!

XI

Mirth, Spring, to linger in a garden fair, What more has earth to give? All ye that wait, Where is the Cup-bearer, the flagon where? When pleasant hours slip from the hand of Fate, Reckon each hour as a certain gain; Who seeks to know the end of mortal care Shall question his experience in vain.

Thy fettered life hangs on a single thread— Some comfort for thy present ills devise, But those that time may bring thou shalt not dread. Waters of Life and Irem’s Paradise— What meaning do our dreams and pomp convey, Save that beside a mighty stream, wide-fed, We sit and sing of wine and go our way!

The modest and the merry shall be seen To boast their kinship with a single voice; There are no differences to choose between, Thou art but flattering thy soul with choice! Who knows the Curtain’s secret?... Heaven is mute! And yet with Him who holds the Curtain, e’en With Him, oh Braggart, thou would’st raise dispute!

Although His thrall shall miss the road and err, ’Tis but to teach him wisdom through distress, Else Pardon and Compassionate Mercy were But empty syllables and meaningless. The Zealot thirsts for draughts of Kausar’s wine, And Hafiz doth an earthly cup prefer— But what, between the two, is God’s design?

XII

Where is my ruined life, and where the fame Of noble deeds? Look on my long-drawn road, and whence it came, And where it leads!

Can drunkenness be linked to piety And good repute? Where is the preacher’s holy monody, Where is the lute?

From monkish cell and lying garb released, Oh heart of mine, Where is the Tavern fane, the Tavern priest, Where is the wine?

Past days of meeting, let the memory Of you be sweet! Where are those glances fled, and where for me Reproaches meet?

His friend’s bright face warms not the enemy When love is done— Where is the extinguished lamp that made night day, Where is the sun?

Balm to mine eyes the dust, my head I bow Upon thy stair. Where shall I go, where from thy presence? thou Art everywhere.

Look not upon the dimple of her chin, Danger lurks there! Where wilt thou hide, oh trembling heart, fleeing in Such mad haste—where?

To steadfastness and patience, friend, ask not If Hafiz keep— Patience and steadfastness I have forgot, And where is sleep?

XIII

Lady that hast my heart within thy hand, Thou heed’st me not; and if thou turn thine ear Unto the wise, thou shalt not understand— Behold the fault is thine, our words were clear. For all the tumult in my drunken brain Praise God! who trieth not His slave in vain; Nor this world nor the next shall make me fear!

My weary heart eternal silence keeps— I know not who has slipped into my heart; Though I am silent, one within me weeps. My soul shall rend the painted veil apart. Where art thou, Minstrel! touch thy saddest strings Till clothed in music such as sorrow sings, My mournful story from thy zither sweeps.

Lo, not at any time I lent mine ear To hearken to the glories of the earth; Only thy beauty to mine eyes was dear. Sleep has forsaken me, and from the birth Of night till day I weave bright dreams of thee; Drunk with a hundred nights of revelry, Where is the tavern that sets forth such cheer!

My heart, sad hermit, stains the cloister floor With drops of blood, the sweat of anguish dire; Ah, wash me clean, and o’er my body pour Love’s generous wine! the worshippers of fire Have bowed them down and magnified my name, For in my heart there burns a living flame, Transpiercing Death’s impenetrable door.

What instrument through last night’s silence rang? My life into his lay the minstrel wove, And filled my brain with the sweet song he sang. It was the proclamation of thy love That shook the strings of Life’s most secret lyre, And still my breast heaves with last night’s desire, For countless echoes from that music sprang.

And ever, since the time that Hafiz heard His Lady’s voice, as from a rocky hill Reverberates the softly spoken word, So echoes of desire his bosom fill.

XIV

The nightingale with drops of his heart’s blood Had nourished the red rose, then came a wind, And catching at the boughs in envious mood, A hundred thorns about his heart entwined. Like to the parrot crunching sugar, good Seemed the world to me who could not stay The wind of Death that swept my hopes away.

Light of mine eyes and harvest of my heart, And mine at least in changeless memory! Ah, when he found it easy to depart, He left the harder pilgrimage to me! Oh Camel-driver, though the cordage start, For God’s sake help me lift my fallen load, And Pity be my comrade of the road!

My face is seamed with dust, mine eyes are wet. Of dust and tears the turquoise firmament Kneadeth the bricks for joy’s abode; and yet ... Alas, and weeping yet I make lament! Because the moon her jealous glances set Upon the bow-bent eyebrows of my moon, He sought a lodging in the grave—too soon!

I had not castled, and the time is gone. What shall I play? Upon the chequered floor Of Night and Day, Death won the game—forlorn And careless now, Hafiz can lose no more.

XV

Return! that to a heart wounded full sore Valiance and strength may enter in; return! And Life shall pause at the deserted door, The cold dead body breathe again and burn. Oh come! and touch mine eyes, of thy sweet grace, For I am blind to all but to thy face. Open the gates and bid me see once more!

Like to a cruel Ethiopian band, Sorrow despoiled the kingdom of my heart— Return! glad Lord of Rome, and free the land; Before thine arms the foe shall break and part. See now, I hold a mirror to mine eyes, And nought but thy reflection therein lies; The glass speaks truth to them that understand.

Night is with child, hast thou not heard men say? “Night is with child! what will she bring to birth?” I sit and ask the stars when thou’rt away. Oh come! and when the nightingale of mirth Pipes in the Spring-awakened garden ground, In Hafiz’ heart shall ring a sweeter sound, Diviner nightingales attune their lay.

XVI

What is wrought in the forge of the living and life— All things are nought! Ho! fill me the bowl, For nought is the gear of the world and the strife! One passion has quickened the heart and the soul, The Beloved’s presence alone they have sought— Love at least exists; yet if Love were not, Heart and soul would sink to the common lot— All things are nought!

Like an empty cup is the fate of each, That each must fill from Life’s mighty flood; Nought thy toil, though to Paradise gate thou reach, If Another has filled up thy cup with blood; Neither shade from the sweet-fruited trees could be bought By thy praying—oh Cypress of Truth, dost not see That Sidreh and Tuba were nought, and to thee All then were nought!

The span of thy life is as five little days, Brief hours and swift in this halting-place; Rest softly, ah rest! while the Shadow delays, For Time’s self is nought and the dial’s face. On the lip of Oblivion we linger, and short Is the way from the Lip to the Mouth where we pass— While the moment is thine, fill, oh Saki, the glass Ere all is nought!

Consider the rose that breaks into flower, Neither repines though she fade and die— The powers of the world endure for an hour, But nought shall remain of their majesty. Be not too sure of your crown, you who thought That virtue was easy and recompense yours; From the monastery to the wine-tavern doors The way is nought!

What though I, too, have tasted the salt of my tears, Though I, too, have burnt in the fires of grief, Shall I cry aloud to unheeding ears? Mourn and be silent! nought brings relief. Thou, Hafiz, art praised for the songs thou hast wrought, But bearing a stained or an honoured name, The lovers of wine shall make light of thy fame— All things are nought!

XVII

Lay not reproach at the drunkard’s door Oh Fanatic, thou that art pure of soul; Not thine on the page of life to enrol The faults of others! Or less or more I have swerved from my path—keep thou to thine own! For every man when he reaches the goal Shall reap the harvest his hands have sown.

Leave me the hope of a former grace— Till the curtain is lifted none can tell Whether in Heaven or deepest Hell, Fair or vile, shall appear his face. Alike the drunk and the strict of fare For his mistress yearns—in the mosque Love doth dwell And the church, for his lodging is everywhere.

If without the house of devotion I stand, I am not the first to throw wide the door; My father opened it long before, The eternal Paradise slipped from his hand. All you that misconstrue my words’ intent, I lie on the bricks of the tavern floor, And a brick shall serve me for argument.

Heaven’s garden future treasures may yield— Ah, make the most of earth’s treasury! The flickering shade of the willow-tree, And the grass-grown lip of the fruitful field. Trust not in deeds—the Eternal Day Shall reveal the Creator’s sentence on thee; But till then, what His finger has writ, who can say.

Bring the cup in thine hand to the Judgment-seat; Thou shalt rise, oh Hafiz, to Heaven’s gate From the tavern where thou hast tarried late. And if thou hast worshipped wine, thou shalt meet The reward that the Faithful attain; If such thy life, then fear not thy fate, Thou shalt not have lived and worshipped in vain!

XVIII

Slaves of thy shining eyes are even those That diadems of might and empire bear; Drunk with the wine that from thy red lip flows, Are they that e’en the grape’s delight forswear. Drift, like the wind across a violet bed, Before thy many lovers, weeping low, And clad like violets in blue robes of woe, Who feel thy wind-blown hair and bow the head.

Thy messenger the breath of dawn, and mine A stream of tears, since lover and beloved Keep not their secret; through my verses shine, Though other lays my flower’s grace have proved And countless nightingales have sung thy praise. When veiled beneath thy curls thou passest, see, To right and leftward those that welcome thee Have bartered peace and rest on thee to gaze!

But thou that knowest God by heart, away! Wine-drunk, love-drunk, we inherit Paradise, His mercy is for sinners; hence and pray Where wine thy cheek red as red erghwan dyes, And leave the cell to faces sinister. Oh Khizr, whose happy feet bathed in life’s fount, Help one who toils afoot—the horsemen mount And hasten on their way; I scarce can stir.

Ah, loose me not! ah, set not Hafiz free From out the bondage of thy gleaming hair! Safe only those, safe, and at liberty, That fast enchained in thy linked ringlets are. But from the image of his dusty cheek Learn this from Hafiz: proudest heads shall bend, And dwellers on the threshold of a friend Be crownèd with the dust that crowns the meek.

XIX

What drunkenness is this that brings me hope— Who was the Cup-bearer, and whence the wine? That minstrel singing with full voice divine, What lay was his? for ’mid the woven rope Of song, he brought word from my Friend to me Set to his melody.

The wind itself bore joy to Solomon; The Lapwing flew from Sheba’s garden close, Bringing good tidings of its queen and rose. Take thou the cup and go where meadows span The plain, whither the bird with tuneful throat Has brought Spring’s sweeter note.

Welcome, oh rose, and full-blown eglantine! The violets their scented gladness fling, Jasmin breathes purity—art sorrowing Like an unopened bud, oh heart of mine? The wind of dawn that sets closed blossoms free Brings its warm airs to thee.

Saki, thy kiss shall still my bitter cry! Lift up your grief-bowed heads, all ye that weep, The Healer brings joy’s wine-cup—oh, drink deep! Disciple of the Tavern-priest am I; The pious Sheikh may promise future bliss, He brings me where joy is.

The greedy glances of a Tartar horde To me seemed kind—my foeman spared me not Though one poor robe was all that I had got. But Heaven served Hafiz, as a slave his lord, And when he fled through regions desolate, Heaven brought him to thy gate.

XX

From out the street of So-and-So, Oh wind, bring perfumes sweet to me! For I am sick and pale with woe; Oh bring me rest from misery! The dust that lies before her door, Love’s long desired elixir, pour Upon this wasted heart of mine— Bring me a promise and a sign!

Between the ambush of mine eyes And my heart’s fort there’s enmity— Her eye-brow’s bow, the dart that flies, Beneath her lashes, bring to me! Sorrow and absence, glances cold, Before my time have made me old; A wine-cup from the hand of Youth Bring me for pity and for ruth!

Then shall all unbelievers taste A draught or two of that same wine; But if they like it not, oh haste! And let joy’s flowing cup be mine. Cup-bearer, seize to-day, nor wait Until to-morrow!—or from Fate Some passport to felicity, Some written surety bring to me!

My heart threw back the veil of woe, Consoled by Hafiz’ melody: From out the street of So-and-So, Oh wind, bring perfumes sweet to me!

XXI

Not all the sum of earthly happiness Is worth the bowed head of a moment’s pain, And if I sell for wine my dervish dress, Worth more than what I sell is what I gain! Land where my Lady dwells, thou holdest me Enchained; else Fars were but a barren soil, Not worth the journey over land and sea, Not worth the toil!

Down in the quarter where they sell red wine, My holy carpet scarce would fetch a cup— How brave a pledge of piety is mine, Which is not worth a goblet foaming up! Mine enemy heaped scorn on me and said: “Forth from the tavern gate!” Why am I thrust From off the threshold? is my fallen head Not worth the dust?

Wash white that travel-stained sad robe of thine! Where word and deed alike one colour bear, The grape’s fair purple garment shall outshine Thy many-coloured rags and tattered gear. Full easy seemed the sorrow of the sea Lightened by hope of gain—hope flew too fast! A hundred pearls were poor indemnity, Not worth the blast.

The Sultan’s crown, with priceless jewels set, Encircles fear of death and constant dread; It is a head-dress much desired—and yet Art sure ’tis worth the danger to the head? ’Twere best for thee to hide thy face from those That long for thee; the Conqueror’s reward Is never worth the army’s long-drawn woes, Worth fire and sword.

Ah, seek the treasure of a mind at rest And store it in the treasury of Ease; Not worth a loyal heart, a tranquil breast, Were all the riches of thy lands and seas! Ah, scorn, like Hafiz, the delights of earth, Ask not one grain of favour from the base, Two hundred sacks of jewels were not worth Thy soul’s disgrace!

XXII

The rose is not fair without the beloved’s face, Nor merry the Spring without the sweet laughter of wine; The path through the fields, and winds from a flower-strewn place, Without her bright cheek, which glows like a tulip fine, Nor winds softly blowing, fields deep in corn, are fair.

And lips like to sugar, grace like a flower that sways, Are nought without kisses many and dalliance sweet; If thousands of voices sang not the rose’s praise, The joy of the cypress her opening bud to greet, Nor dancing of boughs nor blossoming rose were fair.

Though limned by most skilful fingers, no pictures please Unless the beloved’s image is drawn therein; The garden and flowers, and hair flowing loose on the breeze, Unless to my Lady’s side I may strive and win, Nor garden, nor flowers, nor loose flying curls are fair.

Hast seen at a marriage-feast, when the mirth runs high, The revellers scatter gold with a careless hand? The gold of thy heart, oh Hafiz, despised doth lie, Not worthy thy love to be cast by a drunken band At the feet of her who is fairer than all that’s fair.

XXIII

My lady, that did change this house of mine Into a heaven when that she dwelt therein, From head to foot an angel’s grace divine Enwrapped her; pure she was, spotless of sin; Fair as the moon her countenance, and wise; Lords of the kind and tender glance, her eyes With an abounding loveliness did shine.

Then said my heart: Here will I take my rest! This city breathes her love in every part. But to a distant bourne was she addressed, Alas! he knew it not, alas, poor heart! The influence of some cold malignant star Has loosed my hand that held her, lone and far She journeyeth that lay upon my breast.

Not only did she lift my bosom’s veil, Reveal its inmost secret, but her grace Drew back the curtain from Heaven’s mansions pale, And gave her there an eternal dwelling-place. The flower-strewn river lip and meadows fair, The rose herself but fleeting treasures were, Regret and Winter follow in their trail.

Dear were the days which perished with my friend— Ah, what is left of life, now she is dead, All wisdomless and profitless I spend! The nightingale his own life’s blood doth shed, When, to the kisses of the wind, the morn Unveils the rose’s splendour—with his torn And jealous breast he dyes her petals red.

Yet pardon her, oh Heart, for poor wert thou, A humble dervish on the dusty way; Crowned with the crown of empire was her brow, And in the realms of beauty she bore sway. But all the joy that Hafiz’ hand might hold, Lay in the beads that morn and eve he told, Worn with God’s praise; and see! he holds it now.

XXIV

Not one is filled with madness like to mine In all the taverns! my soiled robe lies here, There my neglected book, both pledged for wine. With dust my heart is thick, that should be clear, A glass to mirror forth the Great King’s face; One ray of light from out Thy dwelling-place To pierce my night, oh God! and draw me near.

From out mine eyes unto my garment’s hem A river flows; perchance my cypress-tree Beside that stream may rear her lofty stem, Watering her roots with tears. Ah, bring to me The wine vessel! since my Love’s cheek is hid, A flood of grief comes from my heart unbid, And turns mine eyes into a bitter sea!

Nay, by the hand that sells me wine, I vow No more the brimming cup shall touch my lips, Until my mistress with her radiant brow Adorns my feast—until Love’s secret slips From her, as from the candle’s tongue of flame, Though I, the singèd moth, for very shame, Dare not extol Love’s light without eclipse.

Red wine I worship, and I worship her!— Speak not to me of anything beside, For nought but these on earth or heaven I care. What though the proud narcissus flowers defied Thy shining eyes to prove themselves more bright, Yet heed them not! those that are clear of sight Follow not them to whom all light’s denied.

Before the tavern door a Christian sang To sound of pipe and drum, what time the earth Awaited the white dawn, and gaily rang Upon mine ear those harbingers of mirth: “If the True Faith be such as thou dost say, Alas! my Hafiz, that this sweet To-day Should bring unknown To-morrow to the birth!”

XXV

The days of absence and the bitter nights Of separation, all are at an end! Where is the influence of the star that blights My hope? The omen answers: At an end! Autumn’s abundance, creeping Autumn’s mirth, Are ended and forgot when o’er the earth The wind of Spring with soft warm feet doth wend.