Dyeing the desert red with his heart’s tears.
Bring, bring the cup! drink we while yet we may
To our soul’s ruin the forbidden draught;
Perhaps a treasure-trove is hid away
Among those ruins where the wine has laughed!—
Perhaps the tulip knows the fickleness
Of Fortune’s smile, for on her stalk’s green shaft
She bears a wine-cup through the wilderness.
The murmuring stream of Ruknabad, the breeze
That blows from out Mosalla’s fair pleasaunce,