Ah, the wine, the lute, the piping,
The dear memories of old,
When I held the brimming beaker
And my friend a bowl of gold.

An’ thou comest to my bosom,
In my autumn spring shall glow;
An’ thou come not, May lies mourning
Colder than December’s snow.

Mute my soul, when thou art absent,
Like a harp with broken strings;
From my breast, when thou art with me,
Rise melodious whisperings.

Well thou knowest what conveying
Unto passion’s feast I went:
Wine in vat, a mead of roses,
And a reed-bed of lament.

Now renew love’s old dominion,
That by virtue of its sway
Equal shall the vagrant’s mat be
To the royal throne of Kay.

Cry the friends with glad rejoicing
That a wanderer is home;
Though I trod the paths of knowledge,
In my desert still I roam.