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...
Of Omar Khayyam

Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

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-:-The First Edition-:-
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1
Awake ! for Morning in the Bowl of Night

Has fling the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:

And Lo! te Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret a Noose of Light.

3
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."

5
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshýd'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.

7
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

9
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

11
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou

Besides me singing in the Wilderness-
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

13
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 thros."

15
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.

17
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, and he lies fast asleep.

19
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!

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2
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' Liquor in its Cup be dry."

4
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.

6
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High-piping Péhlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!

Red Wine!" -the Nightingale cries to the Rose

That yellow Cheek of hers t'incarnadine.

8
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 Jamshýd and Kaikobád away

10
With me along some trip 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.

12
"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!" -thnk some:
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!

14
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.

16
Think, in this battered Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,

How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

18
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

20
A, my Belovéd, 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.

Proud to you by:  Farhan

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