84
In the sweet spring a grassy bank I sought,
And thither wine, and a fair Houri brought;
And, though the people called me graceless dog,
Gave not to Paradise another thought!
85
Sweet is rose-ruddy wine in goblets gay,
And sweet are lute and harp and roundelay;
But for the zealot who ignores the cup,
'Tis sweet when he is twenty leagues away!
86
Life, void of wine, and minstrels with their lutes,
And the soft murmurs of Iraqian futes,
Were nothing worth: I scan the world and see:
Save pleasure, life yields only bitter fruits.
87
Make haste! soon must you quit this life below,
And pass the veil, and Allah's secrets know;
Make haste to take your pleasure while you may,
You wot not whence you come, nor whither go.
88
Depart we must! what boots it then to be,
To walk in vain desires continually?
Nay, but if heaven vouchsafe no place of rest,
What power to cease our wanderings have we?
89
To chant wine's praises is my daily task,
I live encompassed by cup, bowl, and flask;
Zealot! if reason be thy guide, then know
That guide of me doth ofttimes guidance ask.
