When Death shall tread me down upon the plain,
And pluck my feathers, and my life-blood drain,
Then mould me to a cup, and fill with wine,
Haply its scent will make me breathe again.
So far as this world's dealings I have traced,
I find its favours shamefully misplaced;
Allah be praised! I see myself debarred
From all its boons, and wrongfully disgraced.
331. C. L. N. A. I. Alam hama, etc., «states entirely gratuitous.» Write baran without a madd. Bl., Prosody, p. 11. Compare Shakespeare, Sonnet 66.
'Tis dawn! my heart with wine I will recruit,
And dash to bits the glass of good repute;
My long-extending hopes I will renounce,
And grasp long tresses, and the charming lute.