Omar Khayyam

Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence!

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song.

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return'd to me, And evermore my Soul said, 'I myself am Heav'n and Hell.'

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.

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day, I watched the Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all obliterated Tongue It murmur'd—'Gently, Brother, gently, pray!'

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore—but was I sober when I swore? And then—and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My spirit will not all renounce her lore.

You come like a thief in the night, and steal away a little portion of my life; and I cannot get it back again.

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

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.

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!

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same Door as in I went.

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'

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.

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road; But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.

There was a Door to which I found no Key: There was a Veil past which I could not see: Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—'While you live, Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.'