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...
Of Omar Khayyam

Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

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-:-The First Edition-:-
..

41
For "Is" and "Is-not" though withRule and Line,
And "Up-and-down" without, I could define,

I yet in all I only cared to know,
Was never deep in anything but-Wine.

43
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and Seventy jarring Sects confute:

The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.

45
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some cornver of the Hubbub   coucht,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

47
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in-yes-

Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be-Nothing-Thou shalt not be less.

49
'Tis all the Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back int he Closet lays.

51
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

53
With Earth's first Clay They did the last Man's knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:

Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

55
The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
If clings my Being-let the Súfi flout;

Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

57
Oh Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,

Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

59
Listen again.  One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose,

In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.

42
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape

Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas-the Grape!

44
The mighty Mahmúd, the victorious Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde

Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.

46
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing buta Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

48
while the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:

And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee-take that, and do not shrink.

50
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;

And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all-He knows-he knows!

52
And that inverted bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,

Lift not thy hands to It for help-for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

54
I tell Thee this-When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal

Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtara they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul.

56
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,

One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

58
Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;

For all the Sin wherewith the Face of man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give-and take!

60
And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:

And suddenly one more impatient cried-
"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

 

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