Classic Poem

1

O Malik! I pray thee go for the wine full early,
And if it be dear to buy, then buy it dearly!

Bethink thee how once a grizzled old tavern-keeper,
Whose whiskers were black with blowing the tarry wine-skin,
I called, as he lay where slumber had stolen o'er him —
His head sunk low, the left hand's palm his pillow;
And he at my cry arose with a start of terror,
And hastened to light the wick, and it flared, and straightway
His terror was flown: he had gotten a look of gladness
And gaily ha-ha'd — a clatter of idle laughter.
When now by the flame my features were lit, he gave me
The greeting of love, asked many a courteous question;
And into his hand I counted a thousand dirhems
To lodge me a month, with freedom for either party.
I found in his pleasure-domes two noble virgins
Of family high and proud, and became their bridegroom.

'Tis thus I have ever lived and am living ever,
Away my religion goes, and my wealth in armfuls.
As oft as we meet, I like what the law forbiddeth,
And never can bear to like what the law hath allowed.

2

Youth and I, we ran a headlong race of pleasure,
No recorded sin but soon I took its measure,
Of the gifts of time there's none to heaven nigher
Than when music wakes the string of lute and lyre.
O the girl whose song — I had it for the asking —
Oft at Dhi Tuluh rose where our tents were basking!
Make the most of youth, it stayeth not forever;
Let the wine flow round from eve to morn — one river!
Pour into thy cup a sparkling ruddy vintage
That will melt to ruth the miser's hardest mintage,
Sought and chosen out of old for Persia's ruler,
Dowered with twin delights of fragrancy and color.
Seest thou not that I have pawned my soul for liquor,
Kissed the mouth of fair gazelle and foaming beaker?
'Tis because I know, full well I know and fear it,
Far apart shall be my body and my spirit.

3

(A song of scorn for the old ways of the poets of Arabia)

The lovelorn wretch stopped at a deserted camping-ground to ques-
tion it, and I stopped to enquire after the local tavern.
May Allah not dry the eyes of him that wept over stones, and may
He not ease the pain of him that yearns to a tent-peg!
They said, " Didst thou commemorate the dwelling-places of the
Tribe of Asad? " Plague on thee! tell me, who are the Banu Asad?
And who are Tamim and Kais and their kinsfolk? In the sight of
Allah the Bedouins are nobody!
Leave this — may I lack thy company! — and drink old yellow
wine, coursing between the water and the froth,
From the hand of a boy with the girdle on his slender waist. . . .