Beneath this leaden London sky,
As eastward where the hoopoos fly,
And through the tranquil evening air
A muezzin from the turret stair
Summons all faithful souls to prayer.
And we who drink the Saki’s wine
Believe its juice no less divine
Than filled, Hafiz, that cup of thine.
Master and most benign of shades,
Before thy gracious phantom fades