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Hand from skirt no more I'll sever Of yon cypress tall and straight
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Set the hand within that loveling's Tress of double ply one cannot
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What is it that this drunkenness On me of mine hath brought?
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Our Book, for this many a year, In pawn for the vinejuice red is
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Yon meddler, at me who for love And toping outcry maketh
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Unto us the bird of Fortune Yet its way belike shall make
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Lo, at dawning wakeful Fortune To my bed hath come
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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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