“Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!”Īnother Voice, when I am sleeping, cries, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!Īnd those that after some TO-MORROW stare,Ī Muezzi´n from the Tower of Darkness cries, The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled ĭropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.Īnd this delightful Herb whose living Greenįledges the River’s Lip on which we lean-įrom what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!Īh, make the most of what we yet may spend, I sometimes think that never blows so red Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earthĭescend-ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest, Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.įor some we loved, the loveliest and the best The Palace that to Heav’n his pillars threw,Īnd Kings the forehead on his threshold drew-Īnd “Coo, coo, coo,” she cried and “Coo, coo, coo.”Īh, my Belove´d, fill the Cup that clears Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. The Courts where Jamshy´d gloried and drank deep:Īnd Bahra´m, that great Hunter-the Wild Ass Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,Ībode his destined Hour, and went his way. The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.”įor those who husbanded the Golden grain,Īnd those who flung it to the winds like Rain,Īlike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d Laughing,” she says, “into the world I blow, What? for ourselves, who know not if we shallīreathe out the very Breath we now breathe in! Some for the Glories of This World and someĪh, take the Cash, and let the Promise go, Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough,Ī Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou Where name of Slave and Sulta´n is forgot-Īnd Peace to Ma´hmu´d on his golden Throne! That just divides the desert from the sown, With me along the strip of Herbage strown Well, let it take them! What have we to do Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?Īnd this first Summer month that brings the Rose Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.Ĭome, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Red Wine!”-the Nightingale cries to the Rose High-piping Pe´hlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine! Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.Īnd Jamshy´d’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows Īnd David’s lips are lockt but in divine Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough You know how little while we have to stay, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,Īnd, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Sulta´n’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.īefore the phantom of False morning died, Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night Īnd to the field of Heav’n ascending, strikes WAKE! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height His "Rubaiyat," the most popular philosophic poem, is the best of all books to dip into for an alluring thought. Omar Khayyam laughed and enjoyed the good things of life.
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could not substitute her late husband in his pending election protest against Philippine president Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, thus leading to the dismissal of the protest.(Wikipedia) The Supreme Court of the Philippines, through a unanimous opinion penned in 2005 by Associate Justice Leonardo Quisumbing, quoted The Moving Finger when it ruled that the widow of defeated presidential candidate Fernando Poe Jr.The title of Daphne du Maurier's memoir Myself when Young is a quote from quatrain 27 of Fitzgerald's translation:ĭoctor and Saint, and heard great Argument Well, well-what matters it? Believe that, too!ĩ. In the opening chapter of his book God is Not Great (2007), Christopher Hitchens quotes from Richard Le Gallienne's translation of Khayyam's famous quatrain:
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