Netpakistan - Poetry

n e t p a k i s t a n . c o m.

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.	r u b á i y á t	.

...

Of Omar Khayyam

Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

-:-The First Edition-:-

Then said another-"Surely not in vain

My substance from the common Earth was ta'en;

That He who subtly wrought me into Shape

Should stamp me back to common Earth again."

None answered this; but after Silence spake

A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:

"They sneer at me for learning all awry;

What!did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

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-by!"

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

And wash my Body whence the Life has died,

and in a Winding-sheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,

So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong,

Have drowned my Honour in a shallow Cup,

And sold my Reputation for a Song.

And much as Wine has played 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.

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!

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass

Among the Guests Star-scattered ont he Grass,

And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot

Where I made one-turn down an empty Glass!

T A M Á M S H U D

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 Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!"

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."

Sp while the Vessels one by one were speaking,

One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:

And then they jogged each other, "Brother! Brother!

Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

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.

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.

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?

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,

The Moon of Heaven is rising once again:

How oft hereafter rising shall she look

Through this same Garden after me-in vain!

T A M Á M S H U D

...

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