Tulip in the mountains blowing, lamp in mead and garden glowing, gaze on me, for I will give guidance on the way to live.

We are not the pigment charming, nor the scattered scent disarming, we are that which moves confined in the heart, and in the mind.

Drunkenness is wine-engendered, springeth not of goblet tendered, though it needs the goblet, too, to consume the wine, ’tis true.

Let thy breast be flame-conceiving, for within this night of living self may never come to sight save discovered by this light.

Wave of flame, O bare thy bosom to the morning-breeze; O blossom, do not seek the dew, to quell Thy heart’s fiery crucible!