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r u b á i y á t

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...
Of Omar Khayyam

Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

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-:-The Fourth Edition-:-
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41
Preplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,

And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.

43
So when the Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,

And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff-you shall not shrink

45
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

47
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.

49
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the secret-quick about it, Friend!

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True-
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

51
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;

Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
They change and perish all-but He remains;

53
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
T-morrow, when You shall be You no more?

55
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.

57
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?-Nay,

'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

59
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:

42
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what all begins and ends in-Yes;

Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were-To-morrow you shall not be less.

44
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,

Were't not a Shame- were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide

46
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour'd

Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

48
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!

50
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;

52
A moment guess'd-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.

54
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and that endeavour and dispute;

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

56
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.

58
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the dusk and Angel Shape

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

60
The mighty Mahmúd, 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.

 

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