  Hafiz, you are growing old; Hafiz, all the girls abandon Bards whose blood is getting cold, Bards whom Time has laid his hand on. All the merry songs you sung In the days when you were young, Are not worth a feather’s weight To arrest the fist of Fate When it jogs your shifting sand on. Hafiz, though a tinge of grey Shames the locks that once were sable, Drink and laugh the world away, Swear that eld’s a housewife’s fable; Vow that youth is always yours While the graceful gait allures, While the perfume haunts the rose, While a ruddy balsam flows From the flagon on the table. Just a word within your ear, Hafiz: you’re a craven creature If you waste a single tear On the thought that every feature Of the fairest face a maid Ever showed the sun must fade; Rather bid your mistress weigh Youth and beauty’s barren stay, And a wiser lesson teach her. Tell her youth was made for love; Tell her wine was made for drinking; Tell her that in heaven above Mahmoud and his saints are winking At the golden jest of youth; Tell her wisdom’s wisest truth Is, be merry while you may, Cease regretting yesterday, Or about to-morrow thinking. |
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