Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

A book, a woman, and a flask of wine:

The three make heaven for me; it may be thine

Is some sour place of singing cold and bare —

But then, I never said thy heaven was mine.

Would but some wing'ed Angel ere too late

Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise

Enregister, or quite obliterate!

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid

Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd —

Sue for a Debt he never did contract,

And cannot answer — Oh, the sorry trade!

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass

Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on The Grass,

And in Thy joyous Errand reach the Spot

Where I made one — turn down an empty Glass!

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again —

How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;

How oft hereafter rising look for us

Through this same Garden — and for one in vain!

But here are wine and beautiful young girls,

Be wise and hide your Sorrows in their curls,

Dive as you will in life's mysterious sea,

You shall not bring us any better pearls.

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

And wash the Body whence the Life has died,

And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,

By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

After a momentary silence spake

Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;

"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:

What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell

Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell

The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!

"He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

Then said a Second — "Ne'er a peevish Boy

Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,

And He that with his hand the Vessel made

Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my credit in this World much wrong:

Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup

And sold my Reputation for a Song.

Allah, perchance, the secret word might spell;

If Allah be, He keeps His secret well;

What He hath hidden, who shall hope to find?

Shall God His secret to a maggot tell?

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 thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

Said one among them — "Surely not in vain

My substance of the common Earth was ta'en

And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,

Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke

A conscious Something to resent the yoke

Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain

Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits — and then

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

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 Goods they sell.

Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,

And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;

For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man

Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give — and take!

The Koran! well, come put me to the test—

Lovely old book in hideous error drest—

Believe me, I can quote the Koran too,

The unbeliever knows his Koran best. And do you think that unto such as you,

A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew,

God gave the secret, and denied it me?—

Well, well, what matters it! believe that too.

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?"

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,

The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:

How oft hereafter rising shall she look

Through this same Garden after me — in vain!

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!

That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,

Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who

Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,

Not one returns to tell us of the Road,

Which to discover we must travel too.

'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest

A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;

The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash

Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate

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.

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit

Of This and That endeavour and dispute;

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape

Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

Ah, fill the Cup: — what boots it to repeat

How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

Unborn and dead ,

Why fret about them if be sweet!

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.

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,

I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:

And with its all obliterated Tongue

It murmur'd—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"

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?

Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!

One thing at least is certain — This Life flies;

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;

The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse

I made a Second Marriage in my house;

Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed

And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

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.

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."

Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;

To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:

Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

Ah, but my Computations, People say,

Reduced the Year to better reckoning? — Nay

'Twas only striking from the Calendar

Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

Oh Thou who didst with Pitfall and with Gin

Beset the Road I was to wander in,

Thou wilt not with Predestination round

Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins

Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;

Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and

They change and perish all — but He remains.

When You and I behind the Veil are past,

Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,

Which of our Coming and Departure heeds

As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.

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.

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?

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,

And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:

And the first Morning of Creation wrote

What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

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."

And this I know: whether the one True Light,

Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,

One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught

Better than in the Temple lost outright.

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,

Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape

Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and

He bid me taste of it; and 'twas — the Grape!

We are no other than a moving row

Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go

Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held

In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,

One moment, of the Well of Life to taste —

The Stars are setting, and the Caravan

Starts for the dawn of Nothing — Oh, make haste!

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd

Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,

Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,

They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.

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 answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell."

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,

And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,

Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,

So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

What, without asking, hither hurried whence?

And, without asking, whither hurried hence!

Another and another Cup to drown

The Memory of this Impertinence!

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 — knows — HE knows!

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays

Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,

And one by one back in the Closet lays.

Would you that spangle of Existence spend

About the Secret — Quick about it, Friend!

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True —

And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,

Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,

Lift not thy hands to It for help — for It

Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor

Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door

You gaze To-day, while You are You — how then

To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd

Of the Two Worlds so learnedly — are thrust

Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn

Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

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."

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green

Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean —

Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows

From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wilderness —

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

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!

"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"—think some:

Others — "How blest the Paradise to come!"

Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest;

Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep

The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:

And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass

Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

Ah! my Belovéd, 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.

I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;

Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,

And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,

Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd

As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring

Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:

The Bird of Time has but a little way

To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai

Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,

How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp

Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to Rest.

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky

I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup

Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

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.

And look — a thousand Blossoms with the Day

Woke — and a thousand scatter'd into Clay.

Some for the Glories of This World; and some

Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,

Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,

Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,

'''The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,

The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.