And those who husbanded the Golden Grain, And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain, Alike to no such… — Omar Khayyám

Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire.

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!