Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/69



Slaves of vain wisdom and philosophy,

Who toil at Being and Nonentity,

Parching your brains till they are like dry grapes,

Be wise in time, and drink grapejuice like me!

Sense, seeking happiness, bids us pursue

All present joys, and present griefs eschew;

She says, we are not as the meadow grass,

Which, when they mow it down, springs up anew.

Now Ramadan is past, Shawwal comes back,

And feast and song and joy no more we lack;

The wine-skin carriers throng the streets and cry,

"Here comes the porter with his precious pack. "

My comrades are all gone; Death, deadly foe,

Has caught them one by one, and trampled low;

They shared life's feast, and drank its wine with me,

But lost their heads, and dropped a while ago.

Those hypocrites, all know so well, who lurk

In streets to beg their bread, and will not work,

Claim to be saints, like Shibli and Junaid,

No Shiblis are they, though well known in Karkh!

When the great Founder molded me of old,

He mixed much baser metal with my gold;

Better or fairer I can never be

Than I first issued from his heavenly mold.