Feast of Spring


My breast is filled with roses
My cup is crowned with wine
And the veil her face discloses
The maid I hail as mine
The monarch, wheresoe'er he be
Is but a slave compared to me

Their glare no torches throwing
Should in our bower be found
Her eyes, like moonbeams glowing
Cast light enough around
And other odors I could spare
Who scent perfume of her hair
Honey-dew thy charm might borrow
Thy lip alone to me is sweet
When thou art absent, faint with sorrow
I hide in some lone retreat
Why talk to me of power of fame?
What are those idle toys to me?
Why ask the praises of my name?
My joy, my triumph is in thee
How blest am I! around me swelling
The notes of melody arise!
I hold the cup with wine excelling
And gaze upon thy radiant eyes
Oh Hafiz! never waste thy hours
Without the cup, lute and love
For 'tis the sweetest time of flowers
And none these moments would reprove
The nightingales around thee sing
It is the joyous feast of spring

Classic Works of the World


Research: Classic Poems

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