Ode 487

With last night’s wine still singing in my head,

I sought the tavern at the break of day,

Though half the world was still asleep in bed;

The harp and flute were up and in full swing,

And a most pleasant morning sound made they;

Already was the wine-cup on the wing.

‘Reason,’ said I, ‘’t is past the time to start,

If you would reach your daily destination,

The holy city of intoxication.’   

So did I pack him off, and he depart

With a stout flask for fellow-traveller.

Left to myself, the tavern-wench I spied,

And sought to win her love by speaking fair;

Alas! she turned upon me, scornful-eyed,

And mocked my foolish hopes of winning her.

Said she, her arching eyebrows like a bow:

‘Thou mark for all the shafts of evil tongues!

Thou shalt not round my middle clasp me so,

Like my good girdle – not for all thy songs! –

So long as thou in all created things

Seest but thyself the centre and the end.

Go spread thy dainty nets for other wings –

Too high the Anca’s nest for thee, my friend.’

Then took I shelter from that stormy sea

In the good ark of wine; yet, woe is me!

Saki and comrade and minstrel all by turns,

She is of maidens the compendium

Who my poor heart in such a fashion spurns.

Self, HAFIZ, self! That thou must overcome!

Hearken the wisdom of the tavern-daughter!

Vain little baggage – well, upon my word!

Thou fairy figment made of clay and water,

As busy with thy beauty as a bird.

Well, HAFIZ, Life’s a riddle – give it up:

There is no answer to it but this cup.