With Madness Like To Mine

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!'