| The Rose is come and best in Spring abideth |
|
|
| Heart-sick ones, in whom desire is, But ability is not |
|
|
| At the soul-adventurers' mart-head Proclamation lo! they make |
|
|
| Roses come cull and to thorns, Soufi, that patchcoat of thine give |
|
|
| Come, so the spirit's fragrance That I may retrace from that cheek |
|
|
| Lo, by thy bright eye's magic, O happy-favoured fair |
|
|
| Since that this boast I uttered, 'Tis forty years, in fine |
|
|
| In thy footsteps' dust our faces Many a time and tide we've laid |
|
|
| Up, skinker, and give me In hand the bowl! |
|
|
| Though to the service of the King we bound are |
|
|