(no subject)

[thee_emperor]

Rejoice my heart, before the springtime goes

With her fresh laughter;

You soon will die, and ah! how thick the rose

Shall blossom after.

Only its roots shall crown your rotting head,

While other youngsters

Shall shed its petals on the glossy curls

Of other songsters;

You nostrils with the smell of death are filled-

They smell the roses;

O be your attar from each rose distilled

Before it closes.

Listen to the harp, and wisely heed

What it is saying:

Laugh and be glad; dead you are dead indeed-

Make no delaying.

I fix not what you drink, or at whose side

You should be sitting;

You are a man of sense, and can decide

What is befitting.

Only make haste: each blade of grass you tread,

Clear for your reading,

Teaches the myriad lessons of the dead;

Be not unheeding.

Give not to worldly cares and wasting thought

Your hours of pleasure;

The world will take your all and give you nought;

Guard well your treasure.

Strange is our path and dread; whither it goes

There is no knowing;

Hafiz half thinks that the Beloved knows

Where we are going.