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

XLVII.

When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As the Sea’s self should heed a pebble-cast.

XLVIII.

A Moment’s Halt—a momentary taste Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste— And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reach’d The NOTHING it set out from—Oh, make haste!

XLIX.

Would you that spangle of Existence spend About THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend! A Hair perhaps divides the False from True— And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

L.

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True; Yes; and a single Alif were the clue— Could you but find it—to the Treasure-house, And peradventure to THE MASTER too;

LI.

Whose secret Presence through Creation’s veins Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi and They change and perish all—but He remains;

LII.

A moment guessed—then back behind the Fold Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll’d Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

LIII.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor Of Earth, and up to Heav’n’s unopening Door, You gaze TO-DAY, while You are You—how then TO-MORROW, when You shall be You no more?

LIV.

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.

LV.

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

LVI.

For “Is” and “Is-not” though with Rule and Line And “UP-AND-DOWN” by Logic I define, Of all that one should care to fathom, I was never deep in anything but—Wine.

LVII.

Ah, by my Computations, People say, Reduce the Year to better reckoning?—Nay, ‘Twas only striking from the Calendar Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.

LVIII.

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and ‘twas—the Grape!

LIX.

The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice Life’s leaden metal into Gold transmute;

LX.

The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

LXI.

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?

LXII.

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must, Scared by some After-reckoning ta’en on trust, Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink, To fill the Cup—when crumbled into Dust!

LXIII.

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.

LXIV.

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.

LXV.

The Revelations of Devout and Learn’d Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn’d, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return’d.

LXVI.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return’d to me, And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:”

LXVII.

Heav’n but the Vision of fulfill’d Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXVIII.

We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX.

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LXX.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss’d you down into the Field, He knows about it all—HE knows—HE knows!

LXXI.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXXII.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop’d we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help—for It As impotently moves as you or I.

LXXIII.

With Earth’s first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow’d the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

LXXIV.

YESTERDAY This Day’s Madness did prepare; TO-MORROW’s Silence, Triumph, or Despair: Drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

LXXV.

I tell you this—When, started from the Goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal Of Heav’n Parwin and Mushtari they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.

LXXVI.

The Vine had struck a fiber: which about It clings my Being—let the Dervish flout; Of my Base metal may be filed a Key That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXXVII.

And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite, One Flash of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright.

LXXVIII.

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

LXXIX.

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay’d— Sue for a Debt he never did contract, And cannot answer—Oh the sorry trade!

LXXX.

Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

LXXXI.

Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken’d—Man’s forgiveness give—and take!

LXXXII.

As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away, Once more within the Potter’s house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

LXXXIII.

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, That stood along the floor and by the wall; And some loquacious Vessels were; and some Listen’d perhaps, but never talk’d at all.

LXXXIV.

Said one among them—“Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta’en And to this Figure molded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again.”

LXXXV.

Then said a Second—“Ne’er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.”

LXXXVI.

After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; “They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”

LXXXVII.

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot— I think a Sufi pipkin—waxing hot— “All this of Pot and Potter—Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?”

LXXXVIII.

“Why,” said another, “Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell The luckless Pots he marr’d in making—Pish! He’s a Good Fellow, and ‘twill all be well.”

LXXXIX.

“Well,” murmured one, “Let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by.”

XC.

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, The little Moon look’d in that all were seeking: And then they jogg’d each other, “Brother! Brother! Now for the Porter’s shoulders’ knot a-creaking!”

XCI.

Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide, And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Gardenside.

XCII.

That ev’n buried Ashes such a snare Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air As not a True-believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware.

XCIII.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup, And sold my reputation for a Song.

XCIV.

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.

XCV.

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

XCVI.

Yet Ah, 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!

XCVII.

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed, reveal’d, To which the fainting Traveler might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

XCVIII.

Would but some winged Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate!

XCIX.

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

C.

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again— How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!

CI.

And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass 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!

TAMAM.

Notes

[The references are, except in the first note only, to the stanzas of the Fifth edition.]

(Stanza I.) Flinging a Stone into the Cup was the signal for “To Horse!” in the Desert.

(II.) The “False Dawn”; Subhi Kazib, a transient Light on the Horizon about an hour before the Subhi sadik or True Dawn; a well-known Phenomenon in the East.

(IV.) New Year. Beginning with the Vernal Equinox, it must be remembered; and (howsoever the old Solar Year is practically superseded by the clumsy Lunar Year that dates from the Mohammedan Hijra) still commemorated by a Festival that is said to have been appointed by the very Jamshyd whom Omar so often talks of, and whose yearly Calendar he helped to rectify.

“The sudden approach and rapid advance of the Spring,” says Mr. Binning, “are very