Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
When rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
The wine the drawer of the wine,
And Him that planted first the grape-
O podex, in thy vault there dwells
A charm to make the member mad,
And shake the marrow of the spine.
O member, in thy stubborn strenght
A power avails on podex-sense
To boil the blood in breast and brain;
Shudder the nreves incarnadine!
From me thou drawest pearly drink –
And in its pourings both are drunk.
The Iman drives forth the drunken man
From out the marble prayer-shrine.
Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh
Which should be master of the night-
But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh
When in the sky the sun doth shine?
Now El Qahar to Hazif gives
The worship unto poets due : –
But songs are nought and Music all;
What poet music may define?
Allah’s the atheist! he owns
No Allah. Sneer, thou dullard churl!
The Sufi worships not, but drinks,
Being himself the all-divine.
Come, my Habib, the roses blush,
The waters gleam, the bulbul sings –
To pierce thy podex El Quahar’s
Urgent and and imminent design!