Omar Khayyam

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.