Poems from the Divan of Hafiz

Mirth, Spring, to linger in a garden fair, What more has earth to give? All ye that wait, Where is the Cup-bearer, the flagon where? When pleasant hours slip from the hand of Fate, Reckon each hour as a certain gain; Who seeks to know the end of mortal care Shall question his experience in vain.

_Stanza 1._—It is related that Ghiyasuddin Purabi, who succeeded his father to the throne of Bengal in the year 1367, fell sick. During his illness he was nursed by three faithful handmaidens whose names were Cypress, Tulip, and Rose, and owing to their care he eventually recovered. The rest of the Sultan’s ladies were jealous of the gratitude that the three maidens had earned from Ghiyasuddin, and nicknamed them contemptuously “the three bath women,” because they had washed the King’s body while he was ill. He therefore determined to do them honour by commemorating their devotion in a poem, and to this end he composed the first line of a couplet, and ordered the poets of his court to complete the ode. The line ran thus: “Sàki hadisi-sarvo gul o làleh miravad”—Cup-bearer, a tale runs of a Cypress, a Rose, and a Tulip. But the poets were unable to perform the task to the King’s satisfaction, and at length some one suggested that the line should be sent to Hafiz of Shiraz, the fame of whose great skill had reached Bengal. This was accordingly done, and Hafiz composed the ode here translated, with which the Sultan (whose taste seems to have turned towards the discursive in poetry) was much delighted. The three cups of wine are an allusion to the three maidens who washed the King’s body; the parrots of India are the court poets of Ghiyasuddin, and the Persian sweetmeat is the ode that Hafiz sent to Bengal.

_Stanza 5._—So far I have endeavoured to give the mystical interpretation of the poem. There is, however, a story attached to it which turns it into a historical rather than a theological document. It is related that the King of the Deccan, Mahmud Shah Bahmani, had heard of the fame of Hafiz, and having a pretty taste in literature, was desirous of attracting him to his court. Accordingly he ordered his Vizir, Mir Feiz Allah Inju, to send the poet a sufficient sum to pay for his journey from Shiraz. Hafiz resolved to accept the invitation. He wound up his affairs in his native town, using some of the money the Sultan had sent him in paying his debts and in making gifts to his sister’s children, and set forth upon his journey. But when he reached the town of Lar he found there an acquaintance in very bad case, having been plundered by robbers and reduced to a state of beggary. Hafiz was moved to compassion and gave him the remainder of the money which Mahmud Shah had sent to him. He was now himself unable to continue his journey for want of means, and perhaps it was bitter experience that taught him that in very fact his prayer carpet would not fetch him a glass of wine, and that without the necessary silver pieces he would be thrust from out the tavern doors. From these straits he was rescued by two friendly merchants, who were also on their way to India, and who offered to pay his expenses to Hormuz, and there place him on a vessel of Mahmud Shah’s which was coming to fetch them. Hafiz accepted the offer, went to Hormuz, and embarked on the ship. But before they had left the port a violent storm arose, and persuaded the poet that no advantages he might reap from the journey would be worth the sorrow of the sea. Under pretext of bidding farewell to some friends, he disembarked, and in all haste made the best of his way back to Shiraz, sending to Feiz Allah this poem as an excuse for failing to keep his engagement. The Vizir read it to Mahmud Shah, who was transported by the beauty of the verses and the philosophic dignity in which Hafiz had cloaked his fears of the dangers of the road and the discomforts of seasickness. With singular generosity he sent the defaulting poet a further present, consisting of some at least of the riches of his lands and seas.

From the Sultan of Hormuz he received many favours, though he refused to visit him and his pearl fisheries in the Persian Gulf. He compares this Sultan with Shah Yahya, much to the disadvantage of the latter, saying that the King who had never seen him had filled his mouth with pearls, whereas Shah Yahya, to whose court he had journeyed, had sent him empty away.

All hail, Shiraz, hail! oh site without peer! May God be the Watchman before thy gate, That the feet of Misfortune enter not here! Lest my Ruknabad be left desolate, A hundred times, “God forbid!” I pray; Its limpid stream where the shadows wait Like the fount of Khizr giveth life for aye.

The greedy glances of a Tartar horde To me seemed kind—my foeman spared me not Though one poor robe was all that I had got. But Heaven served Hafiz, as a slave his lord, And when he fled through regions desolate, Heaven brought him to thy gate.

_Stanza 1._—Those who have seen a Persian garden will not find it difficult to understand why it should play so large a part in Persian poetry. Often enough you may pass with one step out of a barren desert of dust and stones into one of these green and fertile spots, full of violets in the spring, and of roses and lilies in the early summer; and from the blinding glare of a Persian sun into a cool and shadowy retreat planted with great plane-trees. The water which flows in numberless streams through the garden, and leaps in countless fountains, has worked all the miracle. The change from desert to flowery paradise is one of those strong contrasts so common in the East which take hold of the imagination of all who see them.

_Stanza 5._—“Narrow-eyedness” is the exact translation of the Persian word for greed, and there is consequently, in the original, a play of meaning between the physical and moral attributes of the Tartars.

When I am dead, open my grave and see The cloud of smoke that rises round thy feet: In my dead heart the fire still burns for thee; Yea, the smoke rises from my winding-sheet! Ah, come, Beloved! for the meadows wait Thy coming, and the thorn bears flowers instead Of thorns, the cypress fruit, and desolate Bare winter from before thy steps has fled.

Hast seen at a marriage-feast, when the mirth runs high, The revellers scatter gold with a careless hand? The gold of thy heart, oh Hafiz, despised doth lie, Not worthy thy love to be cast by a drunken band At the feet of her who is fairer than all that’s fair.

A city where kings are but lovers crowned, A land from the dust of which friendship springs— Who has laid waste that enchanted ground? What has befallen the city of kings? Years have passed since a ruby was won From the mine of manhood; they labour in vain, The fleet-footed wind and the quickening rain, And what has befallen the light of the sun?

Last night the wind from out her village blew, And wandered all the garden alleys through, Oh rose, tearing thy bosom’s robe in two; ’Twas not in vain!

Or far or near there is no halting-place Upon Love’s road—absent, I see thy face, And in thine ear my wind-blown greetings sound, North winds and east waft them where they are bound, Each morn and eve convoys of greeting fair I send to thee.

_Stanza 2._—That is to say, the prayer carpet of the orthodox Mussulman had not enough value to procure for him so much as one glass of Sufi wine. Nor was he worthy to lay his head even upon the dusty steps of the tavern—the place of instruction, in Sufi doctrine.

My heart threw back the veil of woe, Consoled by Hafiz’ melody: From out the street of So-and-So, Oh wind, bring perfumes sweet to me!

Bring wine for the king and the slave at the gate! Alike for all is the banquet spread, And drunk and sober are warmed and fed. When the feast is done and the night grows late, And the second door of the tavern gapes wide, The low and the mighty must bow the head ’Neath the archway of Life, to meet what ... outside?

Hast thou forgotten how the glorious Swift nights flew past, the cup of dawn brimmed high? My love and I alone, God favouring us! And when she like a waning moon did lie, And Sleep had drawn his coif about her brow, Hast thou forgot? Heaven’s crescent moon would bow The head, and in her service pace the sky!

And thou whose sense is dimmed with piety, Thou too shalt learn the magic of her eyes; Forth comes the caravan of sorcery When from those gates the blue-veined curtains rise. And when she walks the flowery meadows through, Upon the jasmine’s shamèd cheek the dew Gathers like sweat, she is so fair to see!

A flower-tinted cheek, the flowery close Of the fair earth, these are enough for me— Enough that in the meadow wanes and grows The shadow of a graceful cypress-tree. I am no lover of hypocrisy; Of all the treasures that the earth can boast, A brimming cup of wine I prize the most— This is enough for me!

The rose has flushed red, the bud has burst, And drunk with joy is the nightingale— Hail, Sufis! lovers of wine, all hail! For wine is proclaimed to a world athirst. Like a rock your repentance seemed to you; Behold the marvel! of what avail Was your rock, for a goblet has cleft it in two!

The Sultan’s crown, with priceless jewels set, Encircles fear of death and constant dread; It is a head-dress much desired—and yet Art sure ’tis worth the danger to the head? ’Twere best for thee to hide thy face from those That long for thee; the Conqueror’s reward Is never worth the army’s long-drawn woes, Worth fire and sword.

_Stanza 4._—Rosenzweig says that “I had not castled” means that Hafiz had not taken the precaution of marrying his son, and so securing for himself grandchildren who would have been a consolation to him on their father’s death. For that reason he had nothing more to lose, and was indifferent as to what his next move in the game should be.

From out mine eyes unto my garment’s hem A river flows; perchance my cypress-tree Beside that stream may rear her lofty stem, Watering her roots with tears. Ah, bring to me The wine vessel! since my Love’s cheek is hid, A flood of grief comes from my heart unbid, And turns mine eyes into a bitter sea!

Though limned by most skilful fingers, no pictures please Unless the beloved’s image is drawn therein; The garden and flowers, and hair flowing loose on the breeze, Unless to my Lady’s side I may strive and win, Nor garden, nor flowers, nor loose flying curls are fair.

The long-drawn tyranny of grief shall pass, Parting shall end in meeting, the lament Of the sad bird that sang “Alas, alas!” Shall reach the rose in her red-curtained tent. Forth from the mosque! the tavern calls to me! Would’st hinder us? The preacher’s homily Is long, but life will soon be spent!

Then with thy love to toy with thee, Rest thee, ah, rest! where none can see; Seek thy delight, for kisses sue, Fresh and afresh and new and new!

If thou would’st know the secret of Love’s fire, It shall be manifest unto thine eyes: Question the torch flame burning steadfastly, But ask no more the sweet wind’s wayward choir. Ask me of faith and love that never dies; Darius, Alexander’s sovereignty, I sing of these no more.

The “Travels of Ibn Batuta,” edited by Defrémery and Sanguinetti.

Thy fettered life hangs on a single thread— Some comfort for thy present ills devise, But those that time may bring thou shalt not dread. Waters of Life and Irem’s Paradise— What meaning do our dreams and pomp convey, Save that beside a mighty stream, wide-fed, We sit and sing of wine and go our way!

Thou knowest that the riches of this field Make no abiding, let the goblet’s fire Consume the fleeting harvest Earth may yield! Oh Cypress-tree! green home of Love’s sweet choir, When I unto the dust I am have passed, Forget thy former wantonness, and cast Thy shadow o’er the dust of my desire.

_Stanza 3._—According to the popular science of the East, the colouring of precious stones, even of those which are buried deep in the earth, is due to the action of rain and wind and of the rays of the sun.

Tradition has amplified and adorned this story. It is said that the three archangels, Gabriel, Michael, and Israfil, were each in turn ordered to take from the earth seven handfuls of clay of three different colours, red, white, and yellow, that God might create out of it the races of mankind. But each in turn was moved by the earth’s prayer that he would not rob her of her substance, and each returned to heaven empty-handed. The fourth time God sent Azrail, the angel of death, who tore the seven handfuls from the earth, but hearing her lamentations, promised her that when man ceased to live his substance should return to the earth from whence it had been taken. With the clay that Azrail brought him God moulded the figure of man, and when it was finished he left it forty days to dry. The angels came often to gaze upon it, and Eblis, kicking it with his foot, found that it rang hollow. When the figure of clay was dry, God breathed the breath of life into its nostrils, and ordered the angels to submit to the man he had created. But Eblis refused, saying that he had been created of pure fire, and would not serve a hollow mould of clay; for which reason God cast him out of Paradise. The rest of the angels acknowledged the superiority of Adam after God had made him tell them the names of all the creatures of the earth, though they had at first protested that it was not seemly that they should bow down to him, for their love for God was greater than his. It is with this legend in his mind that Hafiz speaks of the angels as standing at the tavern door, where man may enter and receive instruction in God’s wisdom, but where they must knock in vain, and as moulding a wine-cup with the despised clay out of which the human body was moulded. I think he means that man himself is the vessel into which divine love and wisdom are poured; and when he says that the angels first brought him wine, he means that by their example they showed him what it was to be intoxicated by the contemplation of God.

What man can tell where Kaus and Kai have gone? Who knows where even now the restless wind Scatters the dust of Djem’s imperial throne? And where the tulip, following close behind The feet of Spring, her scarlet chalice rears, There Ferhad for the love of Shirin pined, Dyeing the desert red with his heart’s tears.

The heavens’ green sea and the bark therein, The slender bark of the crescent moon, Are lost in thy bounty’s radiant noon, Vizir and pilgrim, Kawameddin!

Joy’s certain path, oh Saki, thou hast shown— Long may thy cup be full, thy days be fair! Trouble and sickness from my breast have flown, Order and health thy wisdom marshals there. Not one that numbered Hafiz’ name among The great—unnumbered were his tears, unsung; Praise him that sets an end to endless care!

Art thou with grief afflicted, with the smart Of absence, and is bitter toil thy part? Thy lamentations and thy tears, oh Heart, Are not in vain!

Through all these changes of fortune, Hafiz appears to have played the prudent, if rather unromantic part of the Vicar of Bray. The slender thread of his personal history is made up for the most part of more or less mythical anecdote. He was the son, according to one tradition, of a baker of Shiraz, in which city he was probably educated. The poet Jami says that he does not know under what Sufi doctor Hafiz studied. As a young man, however, he was one of the followers of Sheikh Mahmud Attar, who would seem to have been somewhat of a free-lance among the learned men of Shiraz. Sheikh Mahmud did not give himself up completely to the contemplative life, but combined the functions of a teacher with those of a dealer in fruit and vegetables. “Oh disciple of the tavern!” sings Hafiz, “give me the precious goblet, that I may drink to the Sheikh who has no monastery.” Sheikh Mahmud’s attitude doubtless brought him under the condemnation of the stricter Sufis, of the disciples of a certain Sheikh Hassan Asrakpush in particular, who, as the title of their master denotes, clad themselves only in blue garments, and declared that their minds were filled with heavenly desires, just as their bodies were clothed in the colour of heaven. Hafiz falls foul of this rival school in several of his poems. “I am the servant,” he says, “of all who scatter the dregs of the cup and are clothed in one colour (that is, clothed in sincerity), but not of them whose bodies are clad in blue while black is the colour of their heart.” And again: “Give me not the cup until I have torn from my breast the blue robe,” by which he means that he cannot receive the teachings of true wisdom until he has divested himself of the errors of the uninitiated. From Sheikh Mahmud, perhaps, he learnt a wholesome philosophy which enabled him to see through the narrow-minded asceticism of other religious teachers, whether Sufi or orthodox, and he was not unmindful of the debt he owed him. “My Grey-Beard,” he sings, “who scatters the dregs of the wine, has neither gold nor power, but God has made him both munificent and merciful.” And indeed if he succeeded in unchaining the spirit of his disciple from useless prejudice, it may be admitted that the Sheikh went far towards providing him with a good equipment for life. Although he never submitted to any strict monastic rule, Hafiz assumed the dervish habit of which he speaks so contemptuously. We must suppose that he took the precaution, which he himself recommends, of washing it clean in the wine that Sheikh Mahmud provided for him; in other words, that he tempered his orthodoxy with the freer doctrines he had derived from his teacher. He also became a sheikh.

To steadfastness and patience, friend, ask not If Hafiz keep— Patience and steadfastness I have forgot, And where is sleep?

What instrument through last night’s silence rang? My life into his lay the minstrel wove, And filled my brain with the sweet song he sang. It was the proclamation of thy love That shook the strings of Life’s most secret lyre, And still my breast heaves with last night’s desire, For countless echoes from that music sprang.

Can drunkenness be linked to piety And good repute? Where is the preacher’s holy monody, Where is the lute?

Once only did he comply with the invitations of foreign kings, and his experience on that occasion was far from encouraging. He visited Shah Yahya, Shah Shudja’s brother, at Yezd, but the reward which he received was not commensurate with his expectations. “Long life to thee and thy heart’s desire, oh Cup-bearer of Djem’s court!” he writes—and the context shows that the allusion is to Shah Yahya—“though while I dwelt with thee my cup was never filled with wine.” Moreover, a devoted lover of Shiraz, Hafiz was overcome with homesickness when he was absent from his native town. “Why,” he says in a pathetic little poem written while he was at Yezd—“Why should I not return to mine own home? Why should I not lay my dust in the street of mine own beloved? My bosom cannot endure the sorrows of exile; let me return to mine own city, let me be master of my heart’s desire.” It was after this luckless visit to Shah Yahya that he is said to have remarked, “It seems that Fortune did not intend kings to be wise.”

_Stanza 2._—The Garden of Irem was planted by the mythical King Shedad, the son of Ad, the grandson of Irem, who was himself the son of Shem. The tribe of Ad settled in the sandy deserts near Aden, where Ad began the building of a great city which his son completed. Round his palace Shedad planted a wonderful garden which was intended to rival in beauty the Garden of Eden. “When it was finished he set out with a great attendance to take a view of it, but when they were come within a day’s journey of the place they were all destroyed by a terrible noise from heaven.... The city, they tell us, is still standing in the deserts of Aden, being preserved by Providence as a monument of divine justice, though it be invisible, unless very rarely, when God permits it to be seen, a favour one Colabah pretended to have received in the reign of the Khalif Moawiyah, who, sending for him to know the truth of the matter, Colabah related his whole adventure: that, as he was seeking a camel he had lost, he found himself on a sudden at the gates of this city, and entering it, saw not one inhabitant, at which being terrified, he stayed no longer than to take with him some fine stones which he showed the Khalif.”—_Sale’s Koran._

If without the house of devotion I stand, I am not the first to throw wide the door; My father opened it long before, The eternal Paradise slipped from his hand. All you that misconstrue my words’ intent, I lie on the bricks of the tavern floor, And a brick shall serve me for argument.

The jewel of the secret treasury Is still the same as once it was; the seal Upon Love’s treasure casket, and the key, Are still what thieves can neither break nor steal; Still among lovers loyalty is found, And therefore faithful eyes still strew the ground With the same pearls that mine once strewed for thee.

Lest Sorrow’s army waste thy heart’s domain, I send my life to bring thee peace again, Dear life thy ransom! From thy singers learn How one that longs for thee may weep and burn; Sonnets and broken words, sweet notes and songs I send to thee.

_Stanza 2._—I have found no explanation of these difficult lines, and, for want of a better, I venture to suggest the following: the Garden of Irem, as has been said in the Note to Poem II., was a mimic Paradise constructed by a certain fabulous King Shedad, who wished to be considered a rival to his Maker by his fellows, for which temerity a swift and sharp judgment fell upon him; the River of Life is one of the many streams which waters the divine Paradise. To my thinking, Hafiz takes the one as a type of the wildest human ambition, the other as a part of the most beautiful vision which the mind of man has conceived. And to what does it all amount? he asks. Only to this: that we are like to one who sits and dreams upon the banks of a mighty and resistless river, fed from many sources, and sings, if he be wise, his song of praise, and so departs.

_Stanza 3._—The loves of Ferhad and Shirin are famous in Persian legend. Shirin is called by some Mary, and by others Irene. The Greeks describe her as a Roman by birth and a Christian; the Turks and the Persians say that she was a daughter of the Emperor Maurice, and wife of Khusro Parwiz, who came to the Persian throne in A.D. 591. It was Khusro Parwiz who conquered Jerusalem, and carried off, say the Persians, the true Cross, which had been enclosed in a gold box and buried in the ground. He was devotedly attached to his wife Shirin, but she had given her heart to her humble lover Ferhad. He, despairing of ever reaching one whose rank had placed her so far above him, wandered through the deserts and the mountains of Persia calling upon her name, and in order to beguile his weary hours executed the sculptures upon the rock Behistun—so says the legend. At length the King sent to him and told him that if he would cut through the rock and cause a stream upon the other side of the mountains to flow through it, he would relinquish Shirin to him. Ferhad set himself to the task, and had almost accomplished it when Khusro sent him the false news of Shirin’s death. On hearing it, Ferhad threw himself from the top of the rock and so died. Shirin’s end was scarcely less tragic. Khusro Parwiz was put to a violent death by his son, who proceeded to make proposals of marriage to his father’s widow. Shirin promised to marry him if he would allow her to see once more her husband’s corpse. She was led to the place where the murdered King lay, and drawing a dagger, she stabbed herself and fell dead across his body.

Not only did she lift my bosom’s veil, Reveal its inmost secret, but her grace Drew back the curtain from Heaven’s mansions pale, And gave her there an eternal dwelling-place. The flower-strewn river lip and meadows fair, The rose herself but fleeting treasures were, Regret and Winter follow in their trail.

It is not only as a maker of exquisite verse but also as a philosopher that Hafiz has gained so wide an esteem in the East. No European who reads his Divan but will be taken captive by the delicious music of his songs, the delicate rhythms, the beat of the refrain, and the charming imagery. Some of them are instinct with the very spirit of youth and love and joy, some have a nobler humanity and cry out across the ages with a voice pitifully like our own; and yet few of us will turn to Hafiz for wisdom and comfort, or choose him as a guide. It is the interminable, the hopeless mysticism, the playing with words that say one thing and mean something totally different, the vagueness of a philosophy that dares not speak out, which repels the European just as much as it attracts the Oriental mind. “Give us a working theory,” we demand. “Build us imaginary mansions where our souls, fugitives from the actual, may dream themselves away”—that, it seems to me, is what the Persian asks of his teacher.

This song is not to be found in the best editions of the Divan, and is believed to be spurious; but it is printed in most of the popular editions, and is as widely known as any of the poems which pass with a better right under the name of Hafiz. It is set to a soft and well-nigh tuneless air which sounds like dream music, or the echo of something very beautiful coming from a great distance, the singer ending on an almost whispered repetition of the first exquisite phrase. I have been told that the boatmen on the Ganges sing it as they row, and the monotonous accompaniment of the water under the oars must be even more fitting to the melody than that of the lute strings.