Hafiz in London! even so.

For not alone by Rukni’s flow

The ruddy Persian roses grow.

Not only ’neath the cypress groves,

With soul on fire the singer roves,

And tells the laughing stars his loves.

Here in this city—where I brood

Beside the river’s darkling flood,

And feed the fever in my blood

With Eastern fancies quaintly traced

On yellow parchment, half effaced

In verses subtly interlaced—

Men eat and drink, men love and die,

Beneath this leaden London sky,

As eastward where the hoopoos fly,

And through the tranquil evening air

A muezzin from the turret stair

Summons all faithful souls to prayer.

And we who drink the Saki’s wine

Believe its juice no less divine

Than filled, Hafiz, that cup of thine.

Master and most benign of shades,

Before thy gracious phantom fades

To Mosellay’s enchanted glades,

Breathe on my lips, and o’er my brain

Some comfort for thy child, whose pain

Strives as you strove, but strives in vain.

When sundown sets the world on fire,

The music of the Master’s lyre

Deadens the ache of keen desire.

Reading this painted Persian page,

Where, half a lover, half a sage,

You built your heart a golden cage,

My fancy, skimming southern seas,

Wanders at twilight where the breeze

Flutters the dark pomegranate trees.

We all are sultans in our dreams

Of gardens where the sunlight gleams

On fairer flowers and clearer streams;

And thus in dreams I seek my home

Where dim Shiraz, dome after dome,

Smiles on the water’s silver foam;

The dancing girls, with tinkling feet

And many-coloured garments, beat

Their drums adown the twisted street;

And while the revel sways along,

The scented, flower-crowned, laughing throng

Seem part and parcel of thy song.

Hafiz, night’s rebel angels sweep

Across the sun; I pledge you deep,

And smiling, sighing, sink to sleep.