| Each pathway-farer, who unto The winehouse street his way knows |
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| Welcome, bearer of glad tidings! Welcome bird of happy trace! |
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| So but that Turk of Shirzas take My heart within her hand of snow |
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| To this doorway not for worship Or array, indeed, we've come |
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| Lo, in thy tress ensnared my heart A-bleed, of its own self, is |
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| Lord, that new-blown rose and smiling, Which to me Thou didst commit |
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| Eye there is not from thy face's Radiance full of light that is not |
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| Orion, in the dawning, His baldric down doth lay |
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| No less must the lovers suffer, Who press in the tavern's way |
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| Up, for the conquering flag Of Mensour the King is come! |
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