The night grows late, the route is up,
No need for Saqi now or cup;
Pass me thy goblet, friend of mine,
I’ll pour thee the remaining wine.

Whoever from the golden bowl
Quaffs the sweet poison of the soul,
In my clay jar the bitter juice
Is the sole antidote of use.

Lo, from my dust the sparks unspire:
Whose spirit shall I set afire?
‘Twas wrong, to kindle in my breast
This furnace of desire’s unrest!

Alas, the Western mind hath soiled
The springs of knowledge undefiled;
Stoic alike and Platonist
Have shrouded all the world in mist.

‘AH! I am poisoned’—hark, the cry
Of the world’s heart ascendeth high;
Reason replies lamentingly,
‘I know no charm, no remedy.’

Let it be priest, or beggar poor,
King, or the slave that keeps his door,
All seek success of merchandise
Amid hypocrisy and lies.

The money-changers in the mart
Are blind of head, and black of heart;
The brighter gleams my glowing gem,
The meaner is its worth to them.