Too oft was thy light
With strangers to take wine,
To suffer others’ light
Within the bowl to shine.

The orient wine-bearer
Hands thee the purple cup;
Drink! Let the drunkard’s air
From thy parched earth mount up!

The heart that knoweth well
The fever of desire
Moth-like will hover still
About the candle’s fire.

Sprinkle thy morning tears
Upon life’s desert plain;
New harvest scarce appears
Except thou sow thy grain.

Pass wine! Speak not to me
Of Europe’s tumult vast;
Caravans countlessly
That desolation passed.