| O Lord, in the street of the winehouse What clamour at day there was! |
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| The East wind, at the break of day, A waft from the Friend's tress hath broughten |
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| If union with thee vouchsafed To me of the sky shall be |
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| Hail to Shiraz and its station past compare! |
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| In quest of the garden of roses At dawn-tide in hope I went |
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| Though fraught is the breeze with the scent of the rose And the season of joyance here is |
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| In my bosom's pleasance-chamber Hid an idol fair I hold |
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| Rail not at the topers, zealots Clean-created, rind and core |
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| No day for me, without Thy cheek subright, abideth |
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| The Sage with the shining water of wine His purification maketh |
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