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From ‘The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam’
COME, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring | |
| Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: | |
| The Bird of Time has but a little way | |
| To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing. | |
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| Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon, | 5 |
| 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. | |
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| Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say; | |
| Yes, but where leaves the Rose of yesterday? | 10 |
| And this first Summer month that brings the Rose | |
| Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away…. | |
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| The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon | |
| Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon, | |
| Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face, | 15 |
| Lighting a little hour or two—was gone. | |
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| Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai | |
| Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, | |
| How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp | |
| Abode his destin’d Hour, and went his way. | 20 |
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| They say the Lion and the Lizard keep | |
| The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep: | |
| And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass | |
| Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep…. | |
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| For some we loved, the loveliest and the best | 25 |
| That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest, | |
| Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, | |
| And one by one crept silently to rest. | |
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| And we, that now make merry in the Room | |
| They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, | 30 |
| Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth | |
| Descend, ourselves to make a Couch—for whom? | |
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| I sometimes think that never blows so red | |
| The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; | |
| That every Hyacinth the Garden wears | 35 |
| Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head…. | |
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| Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, | |
| Before we too into the Dust descend; | |
| Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, | |
| Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!… | 40 |
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| Into this Universe, and Why not knowing, | |
| Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing: | |
| And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, | |
| I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing…. | |
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| Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn | 45 |
| I lean’d, the secret well of Life to learn: | |
| And Lip to Lip it murmur’d—‘While you live, | |
| Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.’… | |
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| As then the Tulip for her wonted sup | |
| Of Heavenly Vintage lifts her chalice up, | 50 |
| Do you, twin offspring of the soil, till Heav’n | |
| To Earth invert you like an empty Cup…. | |
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| And if the Cup you drink, the Lip you press, | |
| End in what All begins and ends in—Yes; | |
| Imagine then you are what heretofore | 55 |
| You were—hereafter you shall not be less. | |
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| So when at last the Angel of the drink | |
| Of Darkness finds you by the river-brink, | |
| And, proffering his Cup, invites your Soul | |
| Forth to your Lips to quaff it—do not shrink. | 60 |
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| And fear not lest Existence closing your | |
| Account, should lose, or know the type no more; | |
| The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour’d | |
| Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour. | |
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| When You and I behind the Veil are past, | 65 |
| Oh but the long long while the World shall last, | |
| Which of our Coming and Departure heeds | |
| As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast. | |
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| One Moment in Annihilation’s waste, | |
| One moment, of the Well of Life to taste— | 70 |
| The Stars are setting, and the Caravan | |
| Draws to the Dawn of Nothing—Oh make haste!… | |
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| Oh 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; | 75 |
| The Flower that once is blown for ever dies. | |
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| 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…. | 80 |
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| Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, | |
| And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, | |
| Is’t not a Shame—is’t not a Shame for him | |
| So long in this Clay suburb to abide! | |
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| But that is but a Tent wherein may rest | 85 |
| A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; | |
| The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrásh | |
| Strikes, and prepares it for another guest…. | |
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| The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, | |
| Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit | 90 |
| Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, | |
| Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it…. | |
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| Yesterday This Day’s Madness did prepare; | |
| To-morrow’s Silence, Triumph, or Despair: | |
| Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: | 95 |
| Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where…. | |
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| Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, | |
| And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake: | |
| For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man | |
| Is black with—Man’s Forgiveness give—and take!… | 100 |
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| But see! The rising Moon of Heav’n again | |
| Looks for us, Sweet-heart, through the quivering Plane: | |
| How oft hereafter rising will she look | |
| Among those leaves—for one of us in vain! | |
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| And when Yourself with silver Foot shall pass | 105 |
| Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass, | |
| And in your joyous errand reach the spot | |
| Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass! | |
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