Poem

 Poem 

Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,

when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;

But rapture drowns the sense and self,

the wine the drawer of the wine,

And Him that planted first the grape-

o podex, in thy vault there dwells

A charm to make the member mad,

And shake the marrow of the spine.

O member, in thy stubborn strenght

a power avails on podex-sense

To boil the blood in breast and brain;

shudder the nreves incarnadine!

From me thou drawest pearly drink -

and in its pourings both are drunk.

The Iman drives forth the drunken man

from out the marble prayer-shrine.

Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh

which should be master of the night-

But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh

when in the sky the sun doth shine?

Now El Qahar to Hazif gives

the worship unto poets due : -

But songs are nought and Music all;

what poet music may define?

Allah's the atheist! he owns

no Allah. Sneer, thou dullard churl!

The Sufi worships not, but drinks,

being himself the all-divine.

Come, my Habib, the roses blush,

the waters gleam, the bulbul sings -

To pierce thy podex El Quahar's

urgent and and imminent design!