Shines a star in other heavens, plays another lover’s part,
While I sit in sombre silence, hearing how my heart will beat,
When I catch the faintest footfall sounding down my dreary street.
Is it she, or else some message sent from her to soothe my pain,
Falling on the thirsty seeds of passion like a holy rain?
No, the sounds die out in silence, and the twilight deepens down,
And the orisons of evening breathe above the darkening town;
But my mosque is not the Mufti’s, for my beacon in the gloom
Is the crimson lamp-light floating from the tavern’s warmest room.
There I sit and drug my sorrow to a sleep that seems like death,