Thy surety for the gold thou’st thrown away?
In Sha’aban the troops of Grief disband,
And crown the hours with wine’s red coronet—
The sun of merriment ere long will set,
And meagre Ramazan is close at hand!
Dear is the rose—now, now her sweets proclaim,
While yet the purple petals blush and blow;
Hither adown the path of Spring she came,
And by the path of Autumn she will go.
Now, while we listen, Minstrel, tune thy lay!