174
To-day how sweetly breathes the temperate air,
The rains have newly laved the parched parterre;
And Bulbuls cry in notes of ecstasy,
"Thou too, O pallid rose, our wine must share! "
175
Ere you succumb to shocks of mortal pain,
The rosy grape-juice from your wine-cup drain.
You are not gold, that, hidden in the earth,
Your friends should care to dig you up again!
176
My coming brought no profit to the sky,
Nor does my going swell its majesty;
Coming and going put me to a stand,
Ear never heard their wherefore nor their why.
177
The heavenly Sage, whose wit exceeds compare,
Counteth each vein, and numbereth every hair;
Men you may cheat by hypocritic arts,
But how cheat Him to whom all hearts are bare?
178
Ah! wine lends wings to many a weary wight,
And beauty spots to ladies' faces bright;
All Ramadan I have not drunk a drop,
Thrice welcome, then, O Bairam's blessed night!
179
All night in deep bewilderment I fret,
With tear-drops big as pearls my breast is wet;
I can not fill my cranium with wine;
How can it hold wine, when 'tis thus upset?
