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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!
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