English poem
Xvii
by Omar Khayyam (1048–1131)
'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.