An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 285
In the reign of the fault-forgiving, sin-concealing king,
Hafez turned flagon-drainer, and the mufti a cup-quaffer.
The Sufi crept from the cloister's corner to the wine-jar's foot,
when he saw the constable bearing the pitcher on his shoulder.
Of the shaikh and the judge, and their furtive Jew-like drinking,
I made inquiry at dawn of the wine-selling Elder.
He said: it is no tale to be told—though you are a confidant;
draw in your tongue, keep the veil close, and drink your wine.
Cupbearer, spring is coming, and no price for wine remains;
devise some means—for the heart's blood has come to a boil with grief.
It is love, and penury, and youth, and the fresh of spring;
accept my plea, and cover my sin in the skirt of your bounty.
How long, like the candle, will you run on so glibly of tongue?
Desire's moth has arrived—O lover, now be still.
O king of form and of meaning, the like of whom
no eye has ever seen, nor any ear has heard—
May you live so long that the blue-cloaked, aged sphere
yield up to you, ragged-clad, the gift of your youthful fortune.