8

Set out once more that cup, that wine, oh Saki— Let my true place at last be mine, oh Saki!

Three centuries India’s wine-shops have been closed, And now for your largesse we pine, oh Saki;

My flask of poetry held the last few drops— Unlawful, says our crabb’d devine, oh Saki.

Truth’s forest hides no lion-hearts now: men grovel Before the priest, or the saint’s shrine, oh Saki.

Who has borne off Love’s valiant sword? About An empty scabbard Wisdom’s hands twine, oh Saki.

Verse lights up life, while heart burns bright, but fades For ever when those rays decline, oh Saki;

Bereave not of its moon my night; I see A full moon in your goblet shine, oh Saki!