Sol 5.6

  1. I fear that poetry may stay

  2. with me into the other world.

  3. The diversions of this world have stirred it,

  4. and it, in turn, has tormented me.

  5. How often it has kept me wakeful over beauty,

  6. and how often at dawn it has sung to me!

  7. What then, when it is stirred by

  8. the realms of the spirit and the erring self?

  9. And gardens where beauty no human

  10. has ever known before;

  11. where wine flows in rivers,

  12. and a houri comes in the wake of youthful attendants.

  13. There, my poetry will become for me

  14. the wine-seller in the tavern,

  15. offering whatever delights me,

  16. giving me drink and making me forget.

Sol 5.6