West-Eastern Divan - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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      Ay, many a thing true poets hate;

      Shall he who beauty loves, as well

      Foul things and loathsome tolerate?

      Primeval matter – if the singer

      But mix and mingle these, the four,

      Like Hafiz he, true joyance-bringer,

      Shall quicken folk for evermore.

       VIII. CREATION AND ANIMATION

      JACK ADAM was a clod of clay

      God shaped a human creature;

      Yet from Earth's womb he brought away

      Much dress in form and feature.

      The Elohim breathed into his nose

      The very finest spirit;

      He took a sneezing fit, and rose

      More like a man of merit.

      And yet in brawn and brain and bone

      He still was half a lump, sir,

      Till Noah for the simpleton

      Found his true cure – the bumper.

      Betimes the lump perceived a glow,

      Well wetted with the potion;

      The barm began to stir the dough

      Which put itself in motion.

      Thus, Hafiz, may thy singing sweet

      And thy devout example,

      Lead us, while clinking glasses meet,

      Into our Maker's temple.

       IX. PHENOMENON

      WHEN the dark rain-drift

      Phoebus has wooed,

      Springeth a rainbow swift,

      Rising bright-hued.

      There o'er the misty height

      Spans the arch now,

      What if the bow be white,

      Yet 'tis heaven's bow.

      Greybeard, with clouds in sight,

      Blithe shouldst thou prove;

      What if thy hair be white,

      Yet shalt thou love!

       X. A THING OF BEAUTY

      WHAT motley shows are those that bind

      The heavens with yonder height,

      Through mists of morning ill defined,

      That half defeat the sight?

      Are they the Vizier's tents displayed,

      Where his loved women bide?

      Are they the festal carpets laid

      For one most dear – his bride?

      Scarlet and white, mixed, freckled, streaked –

      Vision of perfect worth!

      Hafiz, how comes thy Shiraz thus

      To greet the cloudy North?

      Yes, neighbour poppies spreading far,

      A cordial, various band,

      As if to scorn the god of war,

      Kindly they robe the land.

      So let the sage who serves our earth

      With flowers still make it gay,

      And, as this morn, the sun shine forth

      To light them on my way.

       XI. DISCORDANCE

      UPON the left beside the rill

      Sits Cupid fluting,

      The fields to right wild clamours fill,

      Mars' trumpet bruiting;

      To those pure notes of soft accost

      The ear's beguiled,

      But all the bloom of song is lost

      In uproar wild;

      Warbles the flute with liquid strain,

      While booms war's thunder;

      If sudden frenzy seize my brain,

      What cause for wonder?

      Louder the flute notes on the left,

      The trump still brays;

      Distract I roam, of wits bereft;

      Should this amaze?

       XII. THE PAST IN THE PRESENT

      LILY and rose by morn bedewed

      Are blooming in the garden near;

      Soft with low-growing underwood

      The rocks climb upward to the rear;

      And, girdled with its belt of trees,

      A feudal castle crowns the height

      Where curves its marge by soft degrees,

      Till with the valley it unite.

      And every air some odour brings

      As when love ached in those old days,

      Those dawnings when my psaltery-strings

      Contended with the morning's rays,

      There where from greenwood shades would start,

      Rounded and full, the hunters' chant,

      To quicken and to fire the heart,

      Accordant to its wish or want.

      Ever the woods fresh leaves unfold!

      With these your soul rejoicing fill;

      Pleasures that were your own of old

      May be enjoyed through others still;

      No man will then complain of us

      Care for ourselves was all we had;

      Through all life's process various

      You must have virtue to be glad.

      And with such winding of my lay,

      Hafiz, once more we hear thy voice;

      'Tis meet in each concluded day

      With the rejoicing to rejoice.

       XIII. SONG AND PLASTIC ART

      FROM clay wherein his fingers wrought

      Fair shapes the Greek may fashion,

      And in the son his hand begot

      Rejoice with rising passion.

      Our hands in the Euphrates stream

      Have

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