  I am lonely, very lonely, for the girl who stole my heart Shines a star in other heavens, plays another lover’s part, While I sit in sombre silence, hearing how my heart will beat, When I catch the faintest footfall sounding down my dreary street. Is it she, or else some message sent from her to soothe my pain, Falling on the thirsty seeds of passion like a holy rain? No, the sounds die out in silence, and the twilight deepens down, And the orisons of evening breathe above the darkening town; But my mosque is not the Mufti’s, for my beacon in the gloom Is the crimson lamp-light floating from the tavern’s warmest room. There I sit and drug my sorrow to a sleep that seems like death, There forget that I have ever kissed her lips and felt her breath From the parted smiling petals of the rose-flower of her mouth Breathe upon my eyes and hair the perfumes of the odorous south. It is war ’twixt wine and memory; on the tavern’s trampled sill I will plant my colours proudly, ruddy as the drops that fill Yonder jars, whose prisoned magic slays regret and saps desire, Burning folly from my bosom with the vineyard’s liquid fire. Woe is me! I boast untimely; even as I lift the cup, On the purple flood the face of the beloved comes floating up. |
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