from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of NightHas flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caughtThe Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe Tavern shouted – ‘Open the Door!You know how little while we have to stay,And, once departed, may return no more.’
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter – and the Bird is on the Wing.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness –Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the WiseTo talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great ArgumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same Door where in I went.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with my 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.’
Ah, fill the Cup – what boots it to repeatHow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:Unborn TOMORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet!
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with meThe Quarrel of the Universe let be:And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
For in and out, above, about, below,’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and DaysWhere Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a Line,Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspireTo grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,Would not we shatter it to bits – and thenRe-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again –How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising look for usThrough this same Garden – and for one in vain!
And when like her, oh Sáki, you shall passAmong the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One – turn down an empty Glass!
Edward Fitzgerald (1809 – 1883)Omar Khayyam (1048 – 1123)
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of NightHas flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caughtThe Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe Tavern shouted – ‘Open the Door!You know how little while we have to stay,And, once departed, may return no more.’
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter – and the Bird is on the Wing.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness –Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the WiseTo talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great ArgumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same Door where in I went.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with my 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.’
Ah, fill the Cup – what boots it to repeatHow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:Unborn TOMORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet!
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with meThe Quarrel of the Universe let be:And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
For in and out, above, about, below,’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and DaysWhere Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a Line,Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspireTo grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,Would not we shatter it to bits – and thenRe-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again –How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising look for usThrough this same Garden – and for one in vain!
And when like her, oh Sáki, you shall passAmong the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One – turn down an empty Glass!
Edward Fitzgerald (1809 – 1883)Omar Khayyam (1048 – 1123)
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