This page needs to be proofread.
O sufi, dervish, subtle kalendar,
How very thirsty all your questions are!
I cannot answer them unless I lean
Upon the perfumed lip of yonder jar.
So great a brightness is the soul of wine
That even in the darkness it will shine,
And cocks will crow, mistaking for the dawn
The apparition of its light divine.
Well might a world without it so forlorn
Mistake the glorious wine-cup for the morn,
'Tis the true morning, there is none beside—
Wine was the happy morning I was born.
If I the faithful vine should e'er forsake,
I think the nightingale's sad heart would break,
The rose throw down her petals in despair—
It were so strange a sacrifice to make.
89
