Omar Khayyam

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.