Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

I
    AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
   Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
       And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
   The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II
   Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
   I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
       "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
   Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

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

  Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
  And Jamsh{'y}d'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.

VI

  And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
  High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
  Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
  That yellow Cheek of hers to' incarnadine.

VII

  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! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII

  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 Jamsh{'y}d and Kaikobád away.

IX

  But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
  Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot:
  Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
  Or Hátim Tai cry Supper--heed them not.

X

  With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
  That just divides the desert from the sown,
      Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
  And pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne.

XI

  Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
  A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
      Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
  And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

XII

  "How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"--think some:
  Others--"How blest the Paradise to come!"
      Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest;
  Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

XIII

  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."

XIV

  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.

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

  Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
  Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
      How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
  Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

XVII

  They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
  The Courts where Jamsh{'y}d gloried and drank deep:
      And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
  Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
XVIII

  I sometimes think that never blows so red
  The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
      That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
  Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

XIX

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

XX

  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.

XXI

  Lo! some we lov'd, the loveliest and best
  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.

XXII

  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?

XXIII

  Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,<