The Saqi, pouring his pure wine
Upon my restless heart
Converts this quicksilver of mine
To gold, by magic art.

I do not know if it be light
Within my breast, or flame;
I only know its radiance white
Shines with a moonlike gleam.

Nature, all hushed, doth suddenly
My quiet heart assail;
The instrument in ecstasy
Playeth its own sweet scale.

Grieve not, thou fool; the starry skies
Within this desert waste
Have many founts, that secret rise
And to the torrent haste.

O thou who didst my sweet wine take,
Grieve not at my sharp sting;
It needs my sting, that I may wake
Man from his slumbering.