The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,. Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires. Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,. And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;. But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,. And still a Garden by the Water blows. And David's Lips are lockt ; but in divine.
High piping Pehlevi, with " Wine! Red Wine! That yellow Cheek of her's to incarnadine. Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring.
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:. The Bird of Time has but a little way. To fly - and Lo! And look - a thousand Blossoms with the Day. Woke - and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:. And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose. Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away. But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot.
Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:. Let Rustum lay about him as he will,. Or Hatim Tai cry Supper - heed them not. With me along some Strip of Herbage strown. That just divides the desert from the sown,. Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,.
And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne. Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,. Beside me singing in the Wilderness -. And Wilderness is Paradise enow. Others - "How blest the Paradise to come!
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;. Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum! Look to the Rose that blows about us - " Lo,. Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:. At once the silken Tassel of my Purse. Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw. 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 those who husbanded the Golden Grain,. And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,. Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd. As, buried once, Men want dug up again. Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai. Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,.
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp. Abode his Hour or two, and went his way. They say the Lion and the Lizard keep. The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:. And Bahram, that great Hunter - the Wild Ass. Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep. I sometimes think that never blows so red. The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;. That every Hyacinth the Garden wears. Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head. And this delightful Herb whose tender Green. Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean -.
Ah, lean upon it lightly! From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears. Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years. That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,.
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,. And one by one crept silently to Rest. And we, that now make merry in the Room. They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,.
Ourselves rnust we beneath the Couch of Earth. Descend, ourselves to make a Couch - for whom? Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,.
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For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom? Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went. What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence! Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence! I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer'd, once did live, And drink; and Ah! And not a drop that from our Cups we throw For Earth to drink of, but may steal below To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye There hidden—far beneath, and long ago. Perplext no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
So when that Angel of the darker Drink At last shall find you by the river-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff—you shall not shrink. And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour. A Hair perhaps divides the False from True— And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit. Ah, by my Computations, People say, Reduce the Year to better reckoning? Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not? And if a Curse—why, then, Who set it there? Of threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain—This Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies. Strange, is it not? The note number for to note 22 is missing. Translated into English Verse.
One Spring day in Edward B. Cowell discovered in the Bodleian library at Oxford a manuscript containing quatrains of Omar Khayyam which he transcribed and sent to his friend and pupil Edward FitzGerald. Later Cowell sent him from India a transcript of the so-called Calcutta manuscript.
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