While the House of Hope is builded on the weak and shifting sand,

While our breath is as the wind is, take the flagon in your hand;

For while I was quaffing, laughing in the tavern yester-night,

From the unknown world an angel floated on my swimming sight—

Handed me a golden vessel, bade me drink, and as I drank

All my swooning senses straightway in the pool of slumber sank;

And I dreamed a dream enchanted of a land beyond the sky,

Where no youthful cheek grows paler, where no flagon e’er runs dry,

Where no woman whispers falsely, where no eyes are ever wet,

Where no kisses ever weary, where no loving hearts forget.

Then I woke, and wept at waking, leaving in that pleasant land

Fairer flowers than Mosellay has, bluer domes than Samarcand.

Nevermore, unhappy Hafiz, will you tread that pleasant land,

Though you sucked the Seven Oceans from their cup of golden sand.