The Grape That Can With Logic Absolute

The Entire World Shall Be Populous With That Action Which Saves One Soul From Despair.

How Much More Of The Mosque, Of Prayer And Fasting? Better Go Drunk And Begging Round The Taverns. Khayyam, Drink Wine, For Soon This Clay Of Yours Will Make A Cup, Bowl, One Day A Jar. When Once You Hear The Roses Are In Bloom, Then Is The Time, My Love, To Pour The Wine; Houris And Palaces And Heaven And Hell- These Are But Fairy-tales, Forget Them All.

This Body Is A Tent Which For A Space Does The Pure Soul With Kingly Presence Grace; When He Departs, Comes The Tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes It, And Moves To A New Halting-place.

Thy Return Is As Another Sun To Heaven; A New Rose Blooming In The Garden Of The Soul.

Come, Fill The Cup, And In The Fire Of Spring The Winter Garment Of Repentance Fling: The Bird Of Time Has But A Little Way To Fly-and Lo! The Bird Is On The Wing.