This 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-ine-bowt 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.
Hafez, let not Thy courage fail!
Fortune, thy charmer Shall unveil.