Hafez · Ghazal 429 · The tulip's goblet is full
ساقی بیا که شد قدح لاله پر ز میطامات تا به چند و خرافات تا به کی؟
بگذر ز کبر و ناز که دیده‌ست روزگارچین قبای قیصر و طرف کلاه کی
هشیار شو که مرغ چمن مست گشت، هانبیدار شو که خواب عدم در پی است، هی
خوش‌نازکانه می‌چمی ای شاخ نوبهار!کآشفتگی مبادت از آشوب باد دی
بر مهر چرخ و شیوه او اعتماد نیستای وای بر کسی که شد ایمن ز مکر وی
فردا شراب کوثر و حور از برای ماستو امروز نیز ساقی مه‌روی و جام می
باد صبا ز عهد صبی یاد می‌دهدجان‌دارویی که غم ببرد درده ای صبی!
حشمت مبین و سلطنت گل، که بسپردفراش باد هر ورقش را به زیر پی
درده به یاد حاتم طی جام یک منیتا نامه سیاه بخیلان کنیم طی
زآن می که داد حسن و لطافت به ارغوانبیرون فکند لطف مزاج از رخش به خوی
مسند به باغ بر که به خدمت چو بندگاناستاده است سرو و کمر بسته است نی
حافظ حدیث سحرفریب خوشت رسیدتا حد مصر و چین و به اطراف روم و ری
The tulip's cup is full and the morning breeze smells of childhood: this is a moment to be awake to. Hafez asks you to let go of pride and of long arguments, since even emperors' crowns did not last. The fortune of the world is changeable, and the rose's splendour is brief, so enjoy what is given today, generously and with others. Be like the young spring branch, graceful and open. The garden is ready to receive you; take your seat in it.
Saqi, come, for the tulip's goblet is full of wine;
how long this pious boasting, how long these fables?
Let go of pride and vanity, for the age has seen
the folds of Caesar's robe and the brim of Kay's crown.
Be alert, for the meadow bird is drunk: look!
Wake up, for the sleep of nothingness is coming: hey!
How delicately you sway, O branch of the new spring;
may the winter wind's storm never trouble you.
There is no trusting the love of the turning sky or its ways;
alas for anyone who felt safe from its cunning.
Tomorrow the wine of Kawthar and the houris are ours,
and today, too, a moon-faced saqi and a cup of wine.
The morning breeze brings back the days of childhood;
pour the soul's medicine that takes away grief, O boy.
Do not look at the pomp and kingdom of the rose, for
the wind, its sweeper, will tread every petal underfoot.
Pour, in memory of Hatam Tai, a cup that holds a whole measure,
so that we may fold away the black record of the misers.
That wine which gave the Judas tree its beauty and grace
brought the delicacy of its nature out on its cheek as sweat.
Carry your cushion into the garden, for like servants in attendance
the cypress stands waiting and the reed has girded its waist.
Hafez, your sweet, spellbinding words have travelled
as far as Egypt and China, and the ends of Rum and Rey.