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!"[20]

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.