Ode XVII

'Tis morn; the clouds a ceiling make:
The morn-cup, mates, the morn-cup take!

Drops of dew streak the tulip's cheek;
The wine-bowl, friends, the wine-bowl seek

The greensward breathes a gale divine;
Drink, therefore, always limpid wine.

The Flower her emerald throne displays:
Bring wine that has the ruby's blaze

Again is closed the vintner's store,
"Open, Thou Opener of the door!"

While smiles on us the season's boon,
I marvel that they close so soon.

Thy lips have salt-rights, 'tis confessed,
O'er wounds upon the fire-burnt breast.

Háfiz, let not
Thy courage fail!
Fortune, thy charmer
Shall unveil.