Hilarious my heart is with wine And still I proclaim it on high,
" In quest of the zephyr of life, Myself to the bowl I apply. "

No pietist's crabbedness sits On the face of the seller of wine;
And so for no patchcoat but that Of the jolly dreg-drainers I sigh.

The winehouse's door if the Sheikh Of the Magians shut in my face,
What door shall I knock at, on whom For succour and solace rely?

Reproach thou me not for that wild I grow in this meadow: as Fate
And Fortune Foreordered me reared, I grew, without questioning why.

'Twixt cloister and winehouse, indeed, No difference look that thou see
Nay, God is my witness, with Him, Wherever He dwelleth, am I.

The dust of the highway of quest Th' elixir of happiness is;
That blissful grisamber-breathed dust, Its servant I'll live and I'll die.

For love of a tall-statured fair's Befuddled narcissus, alack!
The cup, like the tulip, in hand, I languish the rivulet by.

A fable I'm grown for amaze; The brows of the Loved One my heart
Have caught in the curve of their mall, And so at her mercy I lie.

Bring wine, that, as Hafiz prescribes, I may with the life-giving tide
Of the flagon, hypocrisy's dust Wash off from the heart and the eye.