Wine turns out to be a good metaphor for the sufi approach for many reasons: sufi meditation gives a sweet blissful feeling, sufism is about living in the moment, sufism wants to be above a purely rational approach, sufism wishes followers to feel humble.

Drinking wine is my travail
Till my body is dead and stale
At my grave site all shall hail
Odor of wine shall prevail.
(hazrat sultan bahu says faqeers are those whose grave is alive, khayam seems to suggest he is a faqeer)

Drinking wine is my travail
Till my body is dead and stale
At my grave site all shall hail
Odor of wine shall prevail.
(hazrat sultan bahu says faqeers are those whose grave is alive, khayam seems to suggest he is a faqeer)

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter–the Wild Ass
Stamps o’er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
“Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.”

I resolve daily that at dusk I shall repent
For a night with a cup full of wine spent.
In the presence of flowers, my resolve simply went
In such company, I only regret that I ever resolved to repent.

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.

Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears
To-morrow?–Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.

Pursuing knowledge in childhood we rise
Until we become masterful and wise
But if we look through the subtle disguise
We see the ties of worldly lies.

Early one morning I heard an angelic chime
Bringing news of a loving and joyous clime
Pursuit of the unimportant is the worst crime
Live in joy & love before the end of your time.

Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

“How sweet is mortal Sovranty!”–think some:
Others–”How blest the Paradise to come!”
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

Happily I walked with the tavern down the line
Passed an old drunk, holding a bottle of wine
“Do you not fear God?” was reproach of mine
said, “Mercy is God’s sign, in silence I wine and dine.”

This Old World we’ve named Cosmos by mistake
Is the graveyard of nights & days, no more awake
And a feast that hundred Jamshid’s did break
And a throne that hundred Bahram’s did make.

The secrets eternal neither you know nor I
And answers to the riddle neither you know nor I
Behind the veil there is much talk about us, why
When the veil falls, neither you remain nor I.

All my companions, one by one died
With Angel of Death they now reside
In the banquette of life same wine we tried
A few cups back, they fell to the side.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust Descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and–sans End!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted–”Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.”

Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.

In the wheel of fortune the unseen vine
Drink, be merry, wait your turn in line
When it is your turn, neither cry nor whine
Everyone must taste the same deadly wine.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes–or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two–is gone.

The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life’s leaden metal into Gold transmute;

Hark! Feed me wine, if you really care
Turn into ruby my face of amber
Bathe me in wine when death me ensnare
With boards of vine my coffin bear.

Once transpired, cannot be changed
Only pain will come if remorse engaged
Though with sorrow you may be aged
Not even a dot will be rearranged.

The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss’d Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all–HE knows–HE knows!
(the Ball is the seeker who must submit totally to the will og God)

You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

And strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried–
“Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?”
(in some states sufis become so rapt in Truth, they are unable to distinguish themselves from the Light of God)