Omar Khayyam

“ Than ever grew on any earthly vine.
The wine-cup is the little silver well
Where Truth, if Truth there be, doth ever dwell;
Death too is there,—and Death who would not seek?—
And Love that in itself is Heaven and Hell.
The wine-cup is a wistful magic glass,
Wherein all day old faces smile and pass,
Dead lips press ours upon its scented brim,
Old voices whisper many a sweet 'alas!'
And sometimes in the nodding afternoon,
When all is listening-still and half-a-swoon,
Sudden one lifts a shining startled face,—
Hark! 'tis the magic bird, the magic tune! ”

“ My days are filled with wonder and with wine,
(Wine helps the wonder, wonder helps the wine,)
But in the night my bosom fills with tears—
Tears, tears, for one who never can be mine.
Even sad eyes must sparkle in the sun,
But when the miracle of day is done,
Down in a bankrupt darkness deep I lie,
Haunted by all I lost—and might have won!
Yet was there aught to win that is not mine?
I ask not money—only to buy wine;
Women forsake me not for all my sins—
What better winnings, pious friend, are thine?
I am not fit for hell—I am too small ”

“ And no one says—"Where is old Khayyám gone?"
O friends, forget not, as you laugh and play,
Some that were laughing with you yesterday,
Spare from your rose some petals for their graves,
Sprinkle some wine upon their parching clay.
For even this dust that blows along the street
Once whispered to its love that life was sweet,
Ruddy with wine it was, with roses crowned,
And now you spurn it with your eager feet.
There is no better piety than this:
To set aside a little of your bliss,
To feign for death a living portion still
In all the little joys that death must miss. ”

“ Like us, will they have pity on the dead,
Blessing the green that hides love's sleeping head,
And, meanwhile, like such ancient folk as we,
Wine-drench the meadow to a tulip-bed?
O love, how green the world, how blue the sky!
And we are living—living—you and I!
Ah, when the sun shines and our love is near,
'Tis good to live, and very hard to die.
Beautiful wheel of blue above my head,
Will you be turning still when I am dead? ”

“ Waiting and waiting for the day to come.
For some have love, some gold, and some have fame,
But we have nothing, least of all a name,
Nothing but wine, yet ah! how much to say,
Nothing but wine—yet happy all the same.
Youth, like a magic bird, has flown away,
He sang a little morning-hour in May,
Sang to the Rose, his love, that too is gone—
Whither is more than you or I can say.
O have you deemed, who looked on us with scorn,
Poor drunkards, dreaming-drunk from morn to morn,
Our raiment stained, our reputation gone,
That all our heart is grape or barley-corn? ”

“ Vain little breath of sweet rose-coloured dust,
For such as thou Death hath a fearful lust,—
See, where he tears the rose's veil aside,
Kisses and shatters her with one wild gust.
'Tis a strange world we came to, You and I,
Whence no man knows, and surely none knows why,
Why we remain—a harder question still,
And still another—whither when we die? ”

“ I cannot answer them unless I lean
Upon the perfumed lip of yonder jar.
So great a brightness is the soul of wine
That even in the darkness it will shine,
And cocks will crow, mistaking for the dawn
The apparition of its light divine.
Well might a world without it so forlorn
Mistake the glorious wine-cup for the morn,
'Tis the true morning, there is none beside—
Wine was the happy morning I was born.
If I the faithful vine should e'er forsake,
I think the nightingale's sad heart would break,
The rose throw down her petals in despair—
It were so strange a sacrifice to make. ”

“ Sport for the heavenly huntsmen, others say,—
Sorry the sport, methinks, and poor the skill.
What purpose think you has the Saki there,
Pouring those shining motes of wine and air?
A bubble's life—can it be nought to him?
A million bubbles—he must surely care!
Passionate particles of dust and sun,
Run your brief race, nor ask why it is run—
We are but shadow-pictures, voices, dreams;
Perchance they make and break us—just for fun. ”

“ A silence, and the song is done—is done.
Yea! what is man that deems himself divine?
Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine;
Man is a reed, his soul the sound therein;
Man is a lantern, and his soul the shine. ”

“ Still must I drink, and still must drink with thee,—
Tis many laughing hours to bed-time yet.
O love, before death comes to make our bed,
Drink wine, red wine, red as the rose is red,
Our bodies are not gold that we should hope
For men to dig us up when we are dead. ”

“ The thornless image of a magic rose,
Whereto comes singing sweet a nightingale—
The wine-rose fades, and the brown wine-bird goes.
But O may never dawn that last sad hour
When wine shall fail of its accustomed power,
And I shall look with dull forgetful eyes,
An old dead man, on maidens in their flower.
Then were it time indeed to say good-bye
To the green earth and the old happy sky;
Bury me quick, a garrulous old corpse,—
There is no more of Khayyám left to die.
"Where are the fair old faces gone a-hiding? ”

“ There are no sorrows wine cannot allay,
There are no sins wine cannot wash away,
There are no riddles wine knows not to read,
There are no debts wine is too poor to pay.
Would you forget a woman, drink red wine ”

“ This wizard dust, wherein all shapes of birth,—
Soft flowers, great beasts, and huge pathetic kings,—-
Small seeds of wonder, fill a needle's girth.
This clay, this haunted house of sight and sound,
Strange sunny rooms that airily resound
With phantom music played for phantom feet—
And hark! a rat is gnawing underground.
This clay, so strong of heart, of sense so fine,
Surely such clay is more than half divine—
'Tis only fools speak evil of the clay,
The very stars are made of clay like mine.
Yet mark yon potter! see the rascal twirl
On one base wheel the dust of prince and churl ”

“ Who dreamed her face the world might not surpass,
Strength is her neighbour, but he boasts no more,—
And over them the wind cries out, "Alas!"
Would you seek beauty, seek it underground;
Would you find strength—the strong are underground ”

“ Do thou the same, and join the wise who sup.
Only a breath divides belief from doubt,
'Tis muttered breath that makes a man devout,
Yea, death from life only a breath divides—
O haste to drink before that breath is out.
You say, "There are so many crowns to win,
Yet you lie sunken in your sleepy sin";
Bring me a crown of gold and big enough,
And I will wear it—all these are of tin.
Whether you would abide or go away,
Wine will befriend you, friend; for, if you stay,
You'll forget going; and, if you must go,
He'll drown you in the very sweetest way. ”

“ Sweet as the breath of Jesus comes the spring.
Spring, with the cuckoo-sob deep in his throat,
O'er all the land his thrilling whispers float,
Old earth believes his ancient lies once more,
And runs to meet him in a golden coat. ”