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The Soufi his snare set and open His trick-box anew hath made
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Ho, there, skinker! Fill the wine-cup; Pour and pass to me as well!
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If thy face to the moon likened, Yea, and to Perwin they've made
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O cypress fresh of beauty, That far'st with gracious gait
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All the Soufi's coin not wholly Pure from tincture of allay is
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My moon this week the city left; And in mine eyes a year 'tis
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Openly the words I utter, And heart-glad am I of it
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When jasmine-breathed ones lay them down To rest, they lay the dust of grieving
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The Messenger, letter-fraught, Who came from the land of the Friend
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Roses in bosom, wine in hand And she I love submiss is
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