The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam by Omar Khayyám (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📕

LXII.

Another said—“Why, ne’er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy; Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love And Fansy, in an after Rage destroy!”

LXIII.

None answer’d this; but after Silence spake A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: “They sneer at me for leaning all awry; What? did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”

LXIV.

Said one—“Folks of a surly Tapster tell, And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell; They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish! He’s a Good Fellow, and ‘twill all be well.”

LXV.

Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh, “My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry: But, fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!”

LXVI.

So, while the Vessels one by one were speaking, One spied the little Crescent all were seeking: And then they jogg’d each other, “Brother! Brother! Hark to the Porter’s Shoulder-knot a-creaking!”

*

LXVII.

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the life has died, And in a Windingsheet of Vineleaf wrapt, So bury me by some sweet Gardenside.

LXVIII.

That ev’n my buried Ashes such a Snare Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air, As not a True Believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware.

LXIX.

Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long Have done my Credit in Men’s Eye much wrong: Have drown’d my Honour in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song.

LXX.

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore—but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

LXXI.

And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel, And robb’d me of my Robe of Honour—well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

LXXII.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

LXXIII.

Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits—and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

LXXIV.

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know’st no wane, The Moon of Heav’n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me—in vain!

LXXV.

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on The Grass, And in Thy joyous Errand reach the Spot Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass!

TAMAM SHUD.

Fifth Edition

I.

WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav’n, and strikes The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.

II.

Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, “When all the Temple is prepared within, “Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?”

III.

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted—“Open then the Door! “You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more.”

IV.

Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V.

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows; But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine, And many a Garden by the Water blows.

VI.

And David’s lips are lockt; but in divine High-piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine! “Red Wine!”—the Nightingale cries to the Rose That sallow cheek of hers to’ incarnadine.

VII.

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.

VIII.

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.

IX.

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say: Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday? And this first Summer month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

X.

Well, let it take them! What have we to do With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru? Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will, Or Hatim call to Supper—heed not you.

XI.

With me along the strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot— And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!

XII.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

XIII.

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!

XIV.

Look to the blowing Rose 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.”

XV.

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.

XVI.

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.

XVII.

Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

XVIII.

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, but cannot break his Sleep.

XIX.

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.

XX.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean— Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

XXI.

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears: To-morrow—Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.

XXII.

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.

XXIII.

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?

XXIV.

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!

XXV.

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after some TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, “Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.”

XXVI.

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d Of the Two Worlds so wisely—they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

XXVII.

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.

XXVIII.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine 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.”

XXIX.

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.

XXX.

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!

XXXI.

Up from Earth’s Center through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravel’d by the Road; But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.

XXXII.

There was the Door to which I found no Key; There was the Veil through which I might not see: Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE There was—and then no more of THEE and ME.

XXXIII.

Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn In flowing Purple, of their Lord Forlorn; Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal’d And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.

XXXIV.

Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard, As from Without—“THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!”

XXXV.

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean’d, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur’d—“While you live, “Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.”

XXXVI.

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer’d, once did live, And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss’d, How many Kisses might it take—and give!

XXXVII.

For I remember stopping by the way To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all-obliterated Tongue It murmur’d—“Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”

XXXVIII.

And has not such a Story from of Old Down Man’s successive generations roll’d Of such a clod of saturated Earth Cast by the Maker into Human mold?

XXXIX.

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.

XL.

As then the Tulip for her morning sup Of Heav’nly Vintage from the soil looks up, Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav’n To Earth invert you—like an empty Cup.

XLI.

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.

XLII.

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in—Yes; Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY You were—TO-MORROW you shall not be less.

XLIII.

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.

XLIV.

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were’t not a Shame—were’t not a Shame for him In this clay carcass crippled to abide?

XLV.

‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

XLVI.

And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more;