From Love, and from the flowing Bowl,
Those dear delights that cheer my soul,
I've vow'd, full often, to abstain;
I've vow'd, but all my vows are vain.

The bowers, where black-ey'd Houris rove,
Shades, in cœlestial sweets that rise,
Or ev'n the Paradisial Grove,
Less than her humble dome I prize.

Angels ne'er feel, old records say,
Of mighty Love the bissful sway:
Be Love to me, mere mortal, giv'n,
To Angels I resign their heav'n.

Still, when I breathe the pious pray'r,
That intervening form I view,
And turn'd idolater, my fair,
To thee alone I deem it due!

Stint not the grape's nectareous juice;
Nor, yet, the charms of Love refuse;
Too soon will Time his sabre bare,
And Death was never known to spare.

Then tell not me, of cloister pale,
Or college, where dull pedants pine;
Gladlier, the tavern-door I hail,
Where brightly smiles the rosey wine!

Soft zephyr! whisper as you pass
The window, where She's wont to be,
“Sober, or o'er the sparkling glass
H AFIZ still fondly thinks on thee!”