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...
Of Omar Khayyam

Translated by Edward Fitzgerald

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-:-The Fourth Edition-:-
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61
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a snare?

A blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a curse-why, then, Who set it there?

63
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain-This Life flies,

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

65
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which awoke from Sleep
they told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.

67
Heav'n but the vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And hell the shadow from a soul on fire,

Cast on the Darkness into which ourselves,
so late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

69
But helpless pieces of the Game he plays
Upon this chequer-board of Nights and Days;

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the closet lays.

71
The moving finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

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

73
With Earth's first Clay they did the last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:

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

75
I tell you this-When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal

Of heav'n Parwín and Mushtarí they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul

77
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,

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

79
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd-

Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer-Oh, the sorry trade!
 

62
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust

Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup-when crumbled into Dust!

64
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,

Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to disconver we must travel too.

66
I sent my Soul through the invisible,
Some letter of that after-life to spell:
And by and by my soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I myself am Heav'n and Hell":

68
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic shadow-shapes that come and go

Round with the Sun-illuminated lantern held
In midnight by the master of the show;

70
The ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here and There as strikes the Player goes;

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

72
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,

Lift not your hands to It for help-for It
As impotently moves as you or I.

74
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

76
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being-let the Dervish flout;

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

78
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke

Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

80
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,

thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

 

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