|
From the usance of the topers Many a year I never strayed
|
|
|
|
When at dawn the Orient's candle Casteth radiance far and nigh
|
|
|
|
The Wine-cup in my hand, Methought, in slumber's feigning, was
|
|
|
|
Shoot not my heart with glances; for I die
|
|
|
|
Come March-clouds are and the blowing Breezes of the new-born year
|
|
|
|
Parting's day and night of sev'rance From the Friend, at last, is ended
|
|
|
|
Where is it, righteousness, And I, poor sot, ah where?
|
|
|
|
Suffered for love such woe Have I, that ask not
|
|
|
|
If the Soufi drink with measure, Sweet to him its zest still be!
|
|
|
|
I fear me lest our tears Veil-renders for our woe be
|
|
|