| Skinker, with light of wine Kindle our cup and fill! |
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| When at dawn the Orient's candle Casteth radiance far and nigh |
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| The Wine-cup in my hand, Methought, in slumber's feigning, was |
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| Shoot not my heart with glances; for I die |
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| Come March-clouds are and the blowing Breezes of the new-born year |
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| Parting's day and night of sev'rance From the Friend, at last, is ended |
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| Where is it, righteousness, And I, poor sot, ah where? |
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| Suffered for love such woe Have I, that ask not |
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| If the Soufi drink with measure, Sweet to him its zest still be! |
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| I fear me lest our tears Veil-renders for our woe be |
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