غزل شمارهٔ 44

The Saqi, pouring his pure wine upon my restless heart converts this quicksilver of mine to gold, by magic art.

I do not know if it be light within my breast, or flame; I only know its radiance white shines with a moonlike gleam.

Nature, all hushed, doth suddenly my quiet heart assail; the instrument in ecstasy playeth its own sweet scale.

Grieve not, thou fool; the starry skies within this desert waste have many founts, that secret rise and to the torrent haste.

O thou who didst my sweet wine take, grieve not at my sharp sting; it needs my sting, that I may wake man from his slumbering.