غزل شمارهٔ 40

Too oft was thy light with strangers to take wine, to suffer others’ light within the bowl to shine.

The orient wine-bearer hands thee the purple cup; drink! Let the drunkard’s air from thy parched earth mount up!

The heart that knoweth well the fever of desire moth-like will hover still about the candle’s fire.

Sprinkle thy morning tears upon life’s desert plain; new harvest scarce appears except thou sow thy grain.

Pass wine! Speak not to me of Europe’s tumult vast; caravans countlessly that desolation passed.