Once again the ruddy vintage storms the chambers of my brain,

Steals my senses with its kisses, steals and yet shall steal again;

But I do not blame the grape’s blood for the vengeances it wreaks

When it plants its purple standard on the stronghold of my cheeks.

May Allah confer his blessing on the hands that pluck the grape,

May their footsteps never fail who tread its clusters out of shape.

Since the love of wine was written by Fate’s finger on my brow,

What is written once is written, and you cannot change it now;

Talk no babble about wisdom: in the awful hour of death,

Is the breath of Aristotle better than the beggar’s breath?

Spare me, pious friend, reproaches, for the selfsame God who chose

You to be so wise and pious, made me love the wine and rose.

Hafiz, spend thy life so wisely that when thou at last art dead,

‘Dead’ may not be all the comment, all the requiem that’s said.