غزل شمارهٔ 17

Where is the Arab, to revive the old night-revelry, and where the Persian, to bring alive the love-lute’s minstrelsy?

Under the Sufi elder’s gown the flagon is bare and dry: Alas, for none can tell in the town where young red wine’s to buy.

Every man in this grassy mead fashions and takes his rest, but where is he, ah, where indeed, who will make, and burn, his nest?

A thousand caravan-trains have stared like a stranger, and then passed on, but he that close as a lover dared to gaze – is there anyone?

Rise like a wave, and surging flow in the ocean eternally? Thou seek’st the shore, and dost not know where ever the shore may be.

Hither (for in thy tendril’s vein the fresh young blood doth bound) hither hasten, nor ask again where the Magian wine is found.

Twist into one vast war-array all ages that ever were; later and sooner are passed away; where now is Time, ah, where?