My Saki made me drink the wine of There is no god but He: From the illusive world of sense, this cup divine has set me free.

Now I find no charm or grace in song and ale, or harp and lute: To me appeal the tulips wild, the riverside and mountains mute.

Thy mendicant, inebriate, has in great abandon, shattered his sustaining cup at the spring of life.

My flagon small is blessing great, for the age athirst and dry: In the cells where mystics swell big empty gourds are lying by.

In love a novice I am yet, much good for you to keep apart, for my glance is restive more than my wild and untam’d heart.

The dark unfathomed caves of sea hold gems of purest ray serene: The gems retain in midst of brine their essence bright and clean.

Through the poet’s quickening gaze; the rose and tulip lovelier seem: No doubt, the minstrel’s piercing glance is nothing less than magic gleam.