No Jamshid’s memory, the wine
That fioweth in this inn of mine,
It is the pressing of my soul
That sparkleth in my Persian bowl.

Man like a billow quivereth
In eager quest of Being’s breath,
While yet his arrow lies encased
About annihilation’s waist.

Come, let us shatter (for we can)
Like Abraham this talisman;
Within the temple, idols be
Whatever I have seen, but thee.

Until thou deeply enterest
The very heart in Being’s breast,
To leave the gaze to speculate
Is wickedness, and sin most great.

To wander idly, without guide,
Peculiar pleasure is, beside;
Happy am I, that our abode
Is far, and ever winds the road.

The casual glance, that gave to me
The leave to wander, and to see,
‘Twas better far, that casual glance,
Than rapt attention to my chance.

Though I was nourished all my days
Where infidel to idol prays,
Behold, my opened lips impart
The secret of the Kaaba’s heart.