LIX*
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:
LX*
The mighty Mahmúd, Allah-breathing Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde*
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXI*
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse — why, then, Who set it there?
LXII*
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta’en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup — when crumbled into Dust!