# Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

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> RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM
> 
> By Omar Khayyam
> 
> Rendered into English Verse by Edward Fitzgerald
> 
> Contents:
> 
>   Introduction.
>   First Edition.
>   Fifth Edition.
>   Notes.
> 
> Introduction
> 
> Omar Khayyam, The Astronomer-Poet of Persia.
> 
> Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of
> our Eleventh, and died within the First Quarter of our Twelfth
> Century.  The Slender Story of his Life is curiously twined about that
> of two other very considerable Figures in their Time and Country: one
> of whom tells the Story of all Three.  This was Nizam ul Mulk, Vizier
> to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the Grandson, of Toghrul Beg the
> Tartar, who had wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of Mahmud the
> Great, and founded that Seljukian Dynasty which finally roused Europe
> into the Crusades.  This Nizam ul Mulk, in his Wasiyat--or
> Testament--which he wrote and left as a Memorial for future
> Statesmen--relates the following, as quoted in the Calcutta Review,
> No. 59, from Mirkhond's History of the Assassins.
> 
> "'One of the greatest of the wise men of Khorassan was the Imam
> Mowaffak of Naishapur, a man highly honored and reverenced,--may God
> rejoice his soul; his illustrious years exceeded eighty-five, and it
> was the universal belief that every boy who read the Koran or studied
> the traditions in his presence, would assuredly attain to honor and
> happiness.  For this cause did my father send me from Tus to Naishapur
> with Abd-us-samad, the doctor of law, that I might employ myself in
> study and learning under the guidance of that illustrious teacher.
> Towards me he ever turned an eye of favor and kindness, and as his
> pupil I felt for him extreme affection and devotion, so that I passed
> four years in his service.  When I first came there, I found two other
> pupils of mine own age newly arrived, Hakim Omar Khayyam, and the ill-
> fated Ben Sabbah.  Both were endowed with sharpness of wit and the
> highest natural powers; and we three formed a close friendship
> together.  When the Imam rose from his lectures, they used to join me,
> and we repeated to each other the lessons we had heard.  Now Omar was
> a native of Naishapur, while Hasan Ben Sabbah's father was one Ali, a
> man of austere life and practise, but heretical in his creed and
> doctrine.  One day Hasan said to me and to Khayyam, "It is a universal
> belief that the pupils of the Imam Mowaffak will attain to fortune.
> Now, even if we all do not attain thereto, without doubt one of us
> will; what then shall be our mutual pledge and bond?"  We answered,
> "Be it what you please."  "Well," he said, "let us make a vow, that to
> whomsoever this fortune falls, he shall share it equally with the
> rest, and reserve no pre-eminence for himself."  "Be it so," we both
> replied, and on those terms we mutually pledged our words.  Years
> rolled on, and I went from Khorassan to Transoxiana, and wandered to
> Ghazni and Cabul; and when I returned, I was invested with office, and
> rose to be administrator of affairs during the Sultanate of Sultan Alp
> Arslan.'
> 
> "He goes on to state, that years passed by, and both his old school-
> friends found him out, and came and claimed a share in his good
> fortune, according to the school-day vow.  The Vizier was generous and
> kept his word.  Hasan demanded a place in the government, which the
> Sultan granted at the Vizier's request; but discontented with a
> gradual rise, he plunged into the maze of intrigue of an oriental
> court, and, failing in a base attempt to supplant his benefactor, he
> was disgraced and fell.  After many mishaps and wanderings, Hasan
> became the head of the Persian sect of the Ismailians,--a party of
> fanatics who had long murmured in obscurity, but rose to an evil
> eminence under the guidance of his strong and evil will.  In A.D.
> 1090, he seized the castle of Alamut, in the province of Rudbar, which
> lies in the mountainous tract south of the Caspian Sea; and it was
> from this mountain home he obtained that evil celebrity among the
> Crusaders as the OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS, and spread terror through
> the Mohammedan world; and it is yet disputed where the word Assassin,
> which they have left in the language of modern Europe as their dark
> memorial, is derived from the hashish, or opiate of hemp-leaves (the
> Indian bhang), with which they maddened themselves to the sullen pitch
> of oriental desperation, or from the name of the founder of the
> dynasty, whom we have seen in his quiet collegiate days, at Naishapur.
> One of the countless victims of the Assassin's dagger was Nizam ul
> Mulk himself, the old school-boy friend.[1]
> 
> "Omar Khayyam also came to the Vizier to claim his share; but not to
> ask for title or office.  'The greatest boon you can confer on me,' he
> said, 'is to let me live in a corner under the shadow of your fortune,
> to spread wide the advantages of Science, and pray for your long life
> and prosperity.'  The Vizier tells us, that when he found Omar was
> really sincere in his refusal, he pressed him no further, but granted
> him a yearly pension of 1200 mithkals of gold from the treasury of
> Naishapur.
> 
> "At Naishapur thus lived and died Omar Khayyam, 'busied,' adds the
> Vizier, 'in winning knowledge of every kind, and especially in
> Astronomy, wherein he attained to a very high pre-eminence.  Under the
> Sultanate of Malik Shah, he came to Merv, and obtained great praise
> for his proficiency in science, and the Sultan showered favors upon
> him.'
> 
> "When the Malik Shah determined to reform the calendar, Omar was one
> of the eight learned men employed to do it; the result was the Jalali
> era (so called from Jalal-ud-din, one of the king's names)--'a
> computation of time,' says Gibbon, 'which surpasses the Julian, and
> approaches the accuracy of the Gregorian style.'  He is also the
> author of some astronomical tables, entitled 'Ziji-Malikshahi,' and
> the French have lately republished and translated an Arabic Treatise
> of his on Algebra.
> 
> "His Takhallus or poetical name (Khayyam) signifies a Tent-maker, and
> he is said to have at one time exercised that trade, perhaps before
> Nizam-ul-Mulk's generosity raised him to independence.  Many Persian
> poets similarly derive their names from their occupations; thus we
> have Attar, 'a druggist,' Assar, 'an oil presser,' etc.[2]  Omar
> himself alludes to his name in the following whimsical lines:--
> 
>  "'Khayyam, who stitched the tents of science,
>    Has fallen in grief's furnace and been suddenly burned;
>    The shears of Fate have cut the tent ropes of his life,
>    And the broker of Hope has sold him for nothing!'
> 
> "We have only one more anecdote to give of his Life, and that relates
> to the close; it is told in the anonymous preface which is sometimes
> prefixed to his poems; it has been printed in the Persian in the
> Appendix to Hyde's Veterum Persarum Religio, p. 499; and D'Herbelot
> alludes to it in his Bibliotheque, under Khiam.[3]--
> 
> "'It is written in the chronicles of the ancients that this King of
> the Wise, Omar Khayyam, died at Naishapur in the year of the Hegira,
> 517 (A.D. 1123); in science he was unrivaled,--the very paragon of his
> age.  Khwajah Nizami of Samarcand, who was one of his pupils, relates
> the following story: "I often used to hold conversations with my
> teacher, Omar Khayyam, in a garden; and one day he said to me,
> 'My tomb shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter roses
> over it.'  I wondered at the words he spake, but I knew that his were
> no idle words.[4]  Years after, when I chanced to revisit Naishapur, I
> went to his final resting-place, and lo! it was just outside a garden,
> and trees laden with fruit stretched their boughs over the garden
> wall, and dropped their flowers upon his tomb, so that the stone was
> hidden under them."'"
> 
> Thus far--without fear of Trespass--from the Calcutta Review.  The
> writer of it, on reading in India this story of Omar's Grave, was
> reminded, he says, of Cicero's Account of finding Archimedes' Tomb at
> Syracuse, buried in grass and weeds.  I think Thorwaldsen desired to
> have roses grow over him; a wish religiously fulfilled for him to the
> present day, I believe.  However, to return to Omar.
> 
> Though the Sultan "shower'd Favors upon him," Omar's Epicurean
> Audacity of Thought and Speech caused him to be regarded askance in
> his own Time and Country.  He is said to have been especially hated
> and dreaded by the Sufis, whose Practise he ridiculed, and whose Faith
> amounts to little more than his own, when stript of the Mysticism and
> formal recognition of Islamism under which Omar would not hide.  Their
> Poets, including Hafiz, who are (with the exception of Firdausi) the
> most considerable in Persia, borrowed largely, indeed, of Omar's
> material, but turning it to a mystical Use more convenient to
> Themselves and the People they addressed; a People quite as quick of
> Doubt as of Belief; as keen of Bodily sense as of Intellectual; and
> delighting in a cloudy composition of both, in which they could float
> luxuriously between Heaven and Earth, and this World and the Next, on
> the wings of a poetical expression, that might serve indifferently for
> either.  Omar was too honest of Heart as well of Head for this.
> Having failed (however mistakenly) of finding any Providence but
> Destiny, and any World but This, he set about making the most of it;
> preferring rather to soothe the Soul through the Senses into
> Acquiescence with Things as he saw them, than to perplex it with vain
> disquietude after what they might be.  It has been seen, however, that
> his Worldly Ambition was not exorbitant; and he very likely takes a
> humorous or perverse pleasure in exalting the gratification of Sense
> above that of the Intellect, in which he must have taken great
> delight, although it failed to answer the Questions in which he, in
> common with all men, was most vitally interested.
> 
> For whatever Reason, however, Omar as before said, has never been
> popular in his own Country, and therefore has been but scantily
> transmitted abroad.  The MSS. of his Poems, mutilated beyond the
> average Casualties of Oriental Transcription, are so rare in the East
> as scarce to have reacht Westward at all, in spite of all the
> acquisitions of Arms and Science.  There is no copy at the India
> House, none at the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris.  We know but of
> one in England: No. 140 of the Ouseley MSS. at the Bodleian, written
> at Shiraz, A.D. 1460.  This contains but 158 Rubaiyat.  One in the
> Asiatic Society's Library at Calcutta (of which we have a Copy),
> contains (and yet incomplete) 516, though swelled to that by all kinds
> of Repetition and Corruption.  So Von Hammer speaks of his Copy as
> containing about 200, while Dr. Sprenger catalogues the Lucknow MS. at
> double that number.[5]  The Scribes, too, of the Oxford and Calcutta
> MSS. seem to do their Work under a sort of Protest; each beginning
> with a Tetrastich (whether genuine or not), taken out of its
> alphabetical order; the Oxford with one of Apology; the Calcutta with
> one of Expostulation, supposed (says a Notice prefixed to the MS.)
> to have arisen from a Dream, in which Omar's mother asked about his
> future fate.  It may be rendered thus:--
> 
>  "O Thou who burn'st in Heart for those who burn
>   In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn,
>     How long be crying, 'Mercy on them, God!'
>   Why, who art Thou to teach, and He to learn?"
> 
> The Bodleian Quatrain pleads Pantheism by way of Justification.
> 
>  "If I myself upon a looser Creed
>   Have loosely strung the Jewel of Good deed,
>   Let this one thing for my Atonement plead:
>   That One for Two I never did misread."
> 
> The Reviewer,[6] to whom I owe the Particulars of Omar's Life,
> concludes his Review by comparing him with Lucretius, both as to
> natural Temper and Genius, and as acted upon by the Circumstances in
> which he lived.  Both indeed were men of subtle, strong, and
> cultivated Intellect, fine Imagination, and Hearts passionate for
> Truth and Justice; who justly revolted from their Country's false
> Religion, and false, or foolish, Devotion to it; but who fell short of
> replacing what they subverted by such better Hope as others, with no
> better Revelation to guide them, had yet made a Law to themselves.
> Lucretius indeed, with such material as Epicurus furnished, satisfied
> himself with the theory of a vast machine fortuitously constructed,
> and acting by a Law that implied no Legislator; and so composing
> himself into a Stoical rather than Epicurean severity of Attitude, sat
> down to contemplate the mechanical drama of the Universe which he was
> part Actor in; himself and all about him (as in his own sublime
> description of the Roman Theater) discolored with the lurid reflex of
> the Curtain suspended between the Spectator and the Sun.  Omar, more
> desperate, or more careless of any so complicated System as resulted
> in nothing but hopeless Necessity, flung his own Genius and Learning
> with a bitter or humorous jest into the general Ruin which their
> insufficient glimpses only served to reveal; and, pretending sensual
> pleasure, as the serious purpose of Life, only diverted himself with
> speculative problems of Deity, Destiny, Matter and Spirit, Good and
> Evil, and other such questions, easier to start than to run down, and
> the pursuit of which becomes a very weary sport at last!
> 
> With regard to the present Translation.  The original Rubaiyat (as,
> missing an Arabic Guttural, these Tetrastichs are more musically
> called) are independent Stanzas, consisting each of four Lines of
> equal, though varied, Prosody; sometimes all rhyming, but oftener (as
> here imitated) the third line a blank.  Somewhat as in the Greek
> Alcaic, where the penultimate line seems to lift and suspend the Wave
> that falls over in the last.  As usual with such kind of Oriental
> Verse, the Rubaiyat follow one another according to Alphabetic
> Rhyme--a strange succession of Grave and Gay.  Those here selected are
> strung into something of an Eclogue, with perhaps a less than equal
> proportion of the "Drink and make-merry," which (genuine or not)
> recurs over-frequently in the Original.  Either way, the Result is sad
> enough: saddest perhaps when most ostentatiously merry: more apt to
> move Sorrow than Anger toward the old Tentmaker, who, after vainly
> endeavoring to unshackle his Steps from Destiny, and to catch some
> authentic Glimpse of TO-MORROW, fell back upon TO-DAY (which has
> outlasted so many To-morrows!) as the only Ground he had got to stand
> upon, however momentarily slipping from under his Feet.
> 
> [From the Third Edition.]
> 
> While the second Edition of this version of Omar was preparing,
> Monsieur Nicolas, French Consul at Resht, published a very careful and
> very good Edition of the Text, from a lithograph copy at Teheran,
> comprising 464 Rubaiyat, with translation and notes of his own.
> 
> Mons. Nicolas, whose Edition has reminded me of several things, and
> instructed me in others, does not consider Omar to be the material
> Epicurean that I have literally taken him for, but a Mystic, shadowing
> the Deity under the figure of Wine, Wine-bearer, &c., as Hafiz is
> supposed to do; in short, a Sufi Poet like Hafiz and the rest.
> 
> I cannot see reason to alter my opinion, formed as it was more than a
> dozen years ago when Omar was first shown me by one to whom I am
> indebted for all I know of Oriental, and very much of other,
> literature.  He admired Omar's Genius so much, that he would gladly
> have adopted any such Interpretation of his meaning as Mons. Nicolas'
> if he could.[7]  That he could not, appears by his Paper in the
> Calcutta Review already so largely quoted; in which he argues from the
> Poems themselves, as well as from what records remain of the Poet's
> Life.
> 
> And if more were needed to disprove Mons. Nicolas' Theory, there is
> the Biographical Notice which he himself has drawn up in direct
> contradiction to the Interpretation of the Poems given in his Notes.
> (See pp. 13-14 of his Preface.)  Indeed I hardly knew poor Omar was so
> far gone till his Apologist informed me.  For here we see that,
> whatever were the Wine that Hafiz drank and sang, the veritable Juice
> of the Grape it was which Omar used, not only when carousing with his
> friends, but (says Mons. Nicolas) in order to excite himself to that
> pitch of Devotion which others reached by cries and "hurlemens."  And
> yet, whenever Wine, Wine-bearer, &c., occur in the Text--which is
> often enough--Mons. Nicolas carefully annotates "Dieu," "La Divinite,"
> &c.: so carefully indeed that one is tempted to think that he was
> indoctrinated by the Sufi with whom he read the Poems.  (Note to Rub.
> ii. p. 8.)  A Persian would naturally wish to vindicate a
> distinguished Countryman; and a Sufi to enroll him in his own sect,
> which already comprises all the chief Poets of Persia.
> 
> What historical Authority has Mons. Nicolas to show that Omar gave
> himself up "avec passion a l'etude de la philosophie des Soufis"?
> (Preface, p. xiii.)  The Doctrines of Pantheism, Materialism,
> Necessity, &c., were not peculiar to the Sufi; nor to Lucretius before
> them; nor to Epicurus before him; probably the very original
> Irreligion of Thinking men from the first; and very likely to be the
> spontaneous growth of a Philosopher living in an Age of social and
> political barbarism, under shadow of one of the Two and Seventy
> Religions supposed to divide the world.  Von Hammer (according to
> Sprenger's Oriental Catalogue) speaks of Omar as "a Free-thinker, and
> a great opponent of Sufism;" perhaps because, while holding much of
> their Doctrine, he would not pretend to any inconsistent severity of
> morals.  Sir W. Ouseley has written a note to something of the same
> effect on the fly-leaf of the Bodleian MS.  And in two Rubaiyat of
> Mons. Nicolas' own Edition Suf and Sufi are both disparagingly named.
> 
> No doubt many of these Quatrains seem unaccountable unless mystically
> interpreted; but many more as unaccountable unless literally.  Were
> the Wine spiritual, for instance, how wash the Body with it when dead?
> Why make cups of the dead clay to be filled with--"La Divinite," by
> some succeeding Mystic?  Mons. Nicolas himself is puzzled by some
> "bizarres" and "trop Orientales" allusions and images--"d'une
> sensualite quelquefois revoltante" indeed--which "les convenances" do
> not permit him to translate; but still which the reader cannot but
> refer to "La Divinite."[8]  No doubt also many of the Quatrains in the
> Teheran, as in the Calcutta, Copies, are spurious; such Rubaiyat being
> the common form of Epigram in Persia.  But this, at best, tells as
> much one way as another; nay, the Sufi, who may be considered the
> Scholar and Man of Letters in Persia, would be far more likely than
> the careless Epicure to interpolate what favours his own view of the
> Poet.  I observed that very few of the more mystical Quatrains are in
> the Bodleian MS., which must be one of the oldest, as dated at Shiraz,
> A.H. 865, A.D. 1460.  And this, I think, especially distinguishes Omar
> (I cannot help calling him by his--no, not Christian--familiar name)
> from all other Persian Poets: That, whereas with them the Poet is lost
> in his Song, the Man in Allegory and Abstraction; we seem to have the
> Man--the Bon-homme--Omar himself, with all his Humours and Passions,
> as frankly before us as if we were really at Table with him, after the
> Wine had gone round.
> 
> I must say that I, for one, never wholly believed in the Mysticism of
> Hafiz.  It does not appear there was any danger in holding and singing
> Sufi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his Salaam to Mohammed at the
> beginning and end of his Song.  Under such conditions Jelaluddin,
> Jami, Attar, and others sang; using Wine and Beauty indeed as Images
> to illustrate, not as a Mask to hide, the Divinity they were
> celebrating.  Perhaps some Allegory less liable to mistake or abuse
> had been better among so inflammable a People: much more so when, as
> some think with Hafiz and Omar, the abstract is not only likened to,
> but identified with, the sensual Image; hazardous, if not to the
> Devotee himself, yet to his weaker Brethren; and worse for the Profane
> in proportion as the Devotion of the Initiated grew warmer.  And all
> for what?  To be tantalized with Images of sensual enjoyment which
> must be renounced if one would approximate a God, who according to the
> Doctrine, is Sensual Matter as well as Spirit, and into whose Universe
> one expects unconsciously to merge after Death, without hope of any
> posthumous Beatitude in another world to compensate for all one's self-
> denial in this.  Lucretius' blind Divinity certainly merited, and
> probably got, as much self-sacrifice as this of the Sufi; and the
> burden of Omar's Song--if not "Let us eat"--is assuredly--"Let us
> drink, for To-morrow we die!"  And if Hafiz meant quite otherwise by a
> similar language, he surely miscalculated when he devoted his Life and
> Genius to so equivocal a Psalmody as, from his Day to this, has been
> said and sung by any rather than spiritual Worshippers.
> 
> However, as there is some traditional presumption, and certainly the
> opinion of some learned men, in favour of Omar's being a Sufi--and
> even something of a Saint--those who please may so interpret his Wine
> and Cup-bearer.  On the other hand, as there is far more historical
> certainty of his being a Philosopher, of scientific Insight and
> Ability far beyond that of the Age and Country he lived in; of such
> moderate worldly Ambition as becomes a Philosopher, and such moderate
> wants as rarely satisfy a Debauchee; other readers may be content to
> believe with me that, while the Wine Omar celebrates is simply the
> Juice of the Grape, he bragg'd more than he drank of it, in very
> defiance perhaps of that Spiritual Wine which left its Votaries sunk
> in Hypocrisy or Disgust.
> 
> Edward J. Fitzgerald
> 
> Footnotes:
> 
> [Footnote 1: Some of Omar's Rubaiyat warn us of the danger of Greatness, the
> instability of Fortune, and while advocating Charity to all Men,
> recommending us to be too intimate with none.  Attar makes Nizam-ul-Mulk
> use the very words of his friend Omar [Rub. xxviii.], "When Nizam-ul-
> Mulk was in the Agony (of Death) he said, 'Oh God!  I am passing away in
> the hand of the wind.'"]
> 
> [Footnote 2: Though all these, like our Smiths, Archers, Millers, Fletchers, etc.,
> may simply retain the Surname of an hereditary calling.]
> 
> [Footnote 3: "Philosophe Musulman qui a vecu en Odeur de Saintete dans sa
> Religion, vers la Fin du premier et le Commencement du second Siecle,"
> no part of which, except the "Philosophe," can apply to our Khayyam.]
> 
> [Footnote 4: The Rashness of the Words, according to D'Herbelot, consisted in
> being so opposed to those in the Koran: "No Man knows where he shall
> die."--This story of Omar reminds me of another so naturally--and when
> one remembers how wide of his humble mark the noble sailor aimed--so
> pathetically told by Captain Cook--not by Doctor Hawkworth--in his
> Second Voyage (i. 374).  When leaving Ulietea, "Oreo's last request was
> for me to return.  When he saw he could not obtain that promise, he
> asked the name of my Marai (burying-place). As strange a question as
> this was, I hesitated not a moment to tell him 'Stepney'; the parish in
> which I live when in London.  I was made to repeat it several times over
> till they could pronounce it; and then 'Stepney Marai no Toote' was
> echoed through an hundred mouths at once.  I afterwards found the same
> question had been put to Mr. Forster by a man on shore; but he gave a
> different, and indeed more proper answer, by saying, 'No man who used
> the sea could say where he should be buried.'"]
> 
> [Footnote 5: "Since this paper was written" (adds the Reviewer in a note), "we
> have met with a Copy of a very rare Edition, printed at Calcutta in
> 1836.  This contains 438 Tetrastichs, with an Appendix containing 54
> others not found in some MSS."]
> 
> [Footnote 6: Professor Cowell.]
> 
> [Footnote 7:  Perhaps would have edited the Poems himself some years ago.  He may
> now as little approve of my Version on one side, as of Mons. Nicolas'
> Theory on the other.]
> 
> [Footnote 8: A note to Quatrain 234 admits that, however clear the mystical
> meaning of such Images must be to Europeans, they are not quoted without
> "rougissant" even by laymen in Persia--"Quant aux termes de tendresse
> qui commencent ce quatrain, comme tant d'autres dans ce recueil, nos
> lecteurs, habitues maintenant a 1'etrangete des expressions si souvent
> employees par Kheyam pour rendre ses pensees sur l'amour divin, et a la
> singularite des images trop orientales, d'une sensualite quelquefois
> revoltante, n'auront pas de peine a se persuader qu'il s'agit de la
> Divinite, bien que cette conviction soit vivement discutee par les
> moullahs musulmans, et meme par beaucoup de laiques, qui rougissent
> veritablement d'une pareille licence de leur compatriote a 1'egard des
> choses spirituelles."]
> 
> First Edition
> 
> I.
> 
>  Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
>  Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
>    And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
>  The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
> 
> II.
> 
>  Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
>  I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
>    "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
>  Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
> 
> III.
> 
>  And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
>  The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door.
>    You know how little while we have to stay,
>  And, once departed, may return no more."
> 
> IV.
> 
>  Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
>  The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
>    Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
>  Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
> 
> V.
> 
>  Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
>  And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
>    But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
>  And still a Garden by the Water blows.
> 
> VI.
> 
>  And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
>  High piping Pelevi, with "Wine!  Wine!  Wine!
>    Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
>  That yellow Cheek of hers to'incarnadine.
> 
> VII.
> 
>  Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
>  The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
>    The Bird of Time has but a little way
>  To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
> 
> VIII.
> 
>  And look--a thousand Blossoms with the Day
>  Woke--and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
>    And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
>  Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
> 
> IX.
> 
>  But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
>  Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
>    Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
>  Or Hatim Tai cry Supper--heed them not.
> 
> X.
> 
>  With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
>  That just divides the desert from the sown,
>    Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,
>  And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.
> 
> XI.
> 
>  Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
>  A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
>    Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
>  And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
> 
> XII.
> 
>  "How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"--think some:
>  Others--"How blest the Paradise to come!"
>    Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
>  Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
> 
> XIII.
> 
>  Look to the Rose that blows about us--"Lo,
>  Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
>    At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
>  Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
> 
> XIV.
> 
>  The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
>  Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
>    Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
>  Lighting a little Hour or two--is gone.
> 
> XV.
> 
>  And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
>  And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
>    Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
>  As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
> 
> XVI.
> 
>  Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
>  Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
>    How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
>  Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
> 
> XVII.
> 
>  They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
>  The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
>    And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
>  Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
> 
> XVIII.
> 
>  I sometimes think that never blows so red
>  The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
>    That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
>  Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
> 
> XIX.
> 
>  And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
>  Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean--
>    Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
>  From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
> 
> XX.
> 
>  Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
>  TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears-
>    To-morrow?--Why, To-morrow I may be
>  Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
> 
> XXI.
> 
>  Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
>  That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
>    Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
>  And one by one crept silently to Rest.
> 
> XXII.
> 
>  And we, that now make merry in the Room
>  They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
>    Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
>  Descend, ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
> 
> XXIII.
> 
>  Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
>  Before we too into the Dust Descend;
>    Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
>  Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and--sans End!
> 
> XXIV.
> 
>  Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
>  And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,
>    A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
>  "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
> 
> XXV.
> 
>  Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
>  Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
>    Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
>  Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
> 
> XXVI.
> 
>  Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
>  To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
>    One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
>  The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
> 
> XXVII.
> 
>  Myself when young did eagerly frequent
>  Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
>    About it and about: but evermore
>  Came out by the same Door as in I went.
> 
> XXVIII.
> 
>  With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
>  And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
>    And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
>  "I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
> 
> XXIX.
> 
>  Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
>  Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
>    And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
>  I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
> 
> XXX.
> 
>  What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
>  And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
>    Another and another Cup to drown
>  The Memory of this Impertinence!
> 
> XXXI.
> 
>  Up from Earth's Centre through the seventh Gate
>  I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
>    And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
>  But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
> 
> XXXII.
> 
>  There was a Door to which I found no Key:
>  There was a Veil past which I could not see:
>    Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE
>  There seemed--and then no more of THEE and ME.
> 
> XXXIII.
> 
>  Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
>  Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
>    Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
>  And--"A blind understanding!" Heav'n replied.
> 
> XXXIV.
> 
>  Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
>  My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
>    And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live,
>  Drink!--for once dead you never shall return."
> 
> XXXV.
> 
>  I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
>  Articulation answer'd, once did live,
>    And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd
>  How many Kisses might it take--and give.
> 
> XXXVI.
> 
>  For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
>  I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
>    And with its all obliterated Tongue
>  It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
> 
> XXXVII.
> 
>  Ah, fill the Cup:--what boots it to repeat
>  How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
>    Unborn TO-MORROW and dead YESTERDAY,
>  Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!
> 
> XXXVIII.
> 
>  One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
>  One moment, of the Well of Life to taste--
>    The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
>  Starts for the dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!
> 
> XXXIX.
> 
>  How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
>  Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
>    Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
>  Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
> 
> XL.
> 
>  You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
>  For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
>    Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
>  And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
> 
> XLI.
> 
>  For "IS" and "IS-NOT" though with Rule 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.
> 
> XLII.
> 
>  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!
> 
> XLIII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> XLIV.
> 
>  The mighty Mahmud, 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.
> 
> XLV.
> 
>  But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
>  The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
>    And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
>  Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
> 
> XLVI.
> 
>  For in and out, above, about, below,
>  'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
>    Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
>  Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
> 
> XLVII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> XLVIII.
> 
>  While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
>  With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:
>    And when the Angel with his darker Draught
>  Draws up to thee--take that, and do not shrink.
> 
> XLVIX.
> 
>  'Tis all a 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 in the Closet lays.
> 
> L.
> 
>  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!
> 
> LI.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LIII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LIV.
> 
>  I tell Thee this--When, starting from the Goal,
>  Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
>    Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
>  In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul
> 
> LV.
> 
>  The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
>  If clings my Being--let the Sufi flout;
>    Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
>  That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
> 
> LVI.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LVII.
> 
>  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?
> 
> LVIII.
> 
>  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!
> 
> KUZA--NAMA. ("Book of Pots")
> 
> LIX.
> 
>  Listen again.  One Evening at the Close
>  Of Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose,
>    In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
>  With the clay Population round in Rows.
> 
> LX.
> 
>  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?"
> 
> LXI.
> 
>  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."
> 
> LXII.
> 
>  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 Fansy, in an after Rage destroy!"
> 
> LXIII.
> 
>  None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
>  A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
>    "They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
>  What? did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
> 
> LXIV.
> 
>  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."
> 
> LXV.
> 
>  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-bye!"
> 
> LXVI.
> 
>  So, while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
>  One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
>    And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
>  Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
> 
> *****
> 
> LXVII.
> 
>  Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
>  And wash my Body whence the life has died,
>    And in a Windingsheet of Vineleaf wrapt,
>  So bury me by some sweet Gardenside.
> 
> LXVIII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXIX.
> 
>  Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long
>  Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
>    Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
>  And sold my Reputation for a Song.
> 
> LXX.
> 
>  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 a-pieces tore.
> 
> LXXI.
> 
>  And much as Wine has play'd 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.
> 
> LXXII.
> 
>  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!
> 
> LXXIII.
> 
>  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!
> 
> LXXIV.
> 
>  Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
>  The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
>    How oft hereafter rising shall she look
>  Through this same Garden after me--in vain!
> 
> LXXV.
> 
>  And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
>  Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on The Grass,
>    And in Thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
>  Where I made one--turn down an empty Glass!
> 
> TAMAM SHUD.
> 
> Fifth Edition
> 
> I.
> 
>  WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
>  The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
>    Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
>  The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
> 
> II.
> 
>  Before the phantom of False morning died,
>  Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
>    "When all the Temple is prepared within,
>  "Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
> 
> III.
> 
>  And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
>  The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
>    "You know how little while we have to stay,
>  And, once departed, may return no more."
> 
> IV.
> 
>  Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
>  The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
>    Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
>  Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
> 
> V.
> 
>  Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
>  And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
>    But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
>  And many a Garden by the Water blows.
> 
> VI.
> 
>  And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
>  High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
>    "Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
>  That sallow cheek of hers to' incarnadine.
> 
> VII.
> 
>  Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
>  Your Winter garment of Repentance fling:
>    The Bird of Time has but a little way
>  To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
> 
> VIII.
> 
>  Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
>  Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
>    The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
>  The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
> 
> IX.
> 
>  Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:
>  Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
>    And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
>  Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
> 
> X.
> 
>  Well, let it take them!  What have we to do
>  With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
>    Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
>  Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you.
> 
> XI.
> 
>  With me along the strip of Herbage strown
>  That just divides the desert from the sown,
>    Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
>  And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
> 
> XII.
> 
>  A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
>  A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
>    Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
>  Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
> 
> XIII.
> 
>  Some for the Glories of This World; and some
>  Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
>    Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
>  Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
> 
> XIV.
> 
>  Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
>  Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
>    At once the silken tassel of my Purse
>  Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
> 
> XV.
> 
>  And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
>  And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
>    Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
>  As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
> 
> XVI.
> 
>  The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
>  Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
>    Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
>  Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
> 
> XVII.
> 
>  Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
>  Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
>    How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
>  Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
> 
> XVIII.
> 
>  They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
>  The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
>    And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
>  Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
> 
> XIX.
> 
>  I sometimes think that never blows so red
>  The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
>    That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
>  Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
> 
> XX.
> 
>  And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
>  Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
>    Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
>  From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
> 
> XXI.
> 
>  Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
>  TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears:
>    To-morrow--Why, To-morrow I may be
>  Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
> 
> XXII.
> 
>  For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
>  That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
>    Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
>  And one by one crept silently to rest.
> 
> XXIII.
> 
>  And we, that now make merry in the Room
>  They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
>    Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
>  Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
> 
> XXIV.
> 
>  Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
>  Before we too into the Dust descend;
>    Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
>  Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
> 
> XXV.
> 
>  Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
>  And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,
>    A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
>  "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
> 
> XXVI.
> 
>  Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
>  Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
>    Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
>  Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
> 
> XXVII.
> 
>  Myself when young did eagerly frequent
>  Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
>    About it and about: but evermore
>  Came out by the same door where in I went.
> 
> XXVIII.
> 
>  With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
>  And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
>    And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
>  "I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
> 
> XXIX.
> 
>  Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
>  Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
>    And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
>  I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
> 
> XXX.
> 
>  What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
>  And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
>    Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
>  Must drown the memory of that insolence!
> 
> XXXI.
> 
>  Up from Earth's Center through the Seventh Gate
>  I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
>    And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
>  But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
> 
> XXXII.
> 
>  There was the Door to which I found no Key;
>  There was the Veil through which I might not see:
>    Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
>  There was--and then no more of THEE and ME.
> 
> XXXIII.
> 
>  Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
>  In flowing Purple, of their Lord Forlorn;
>    Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
>  And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
> 
> XXXIV.
> 
>  Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind
>  The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
>    A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
>  As from Without--"THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!"
> 
> XXXV.
> 
>  Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
>  I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
>    And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live,
>  "Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
> 
> XXXVI.
> 
>  I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
>  Articulation answer'd, once did live,
>    And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
>  How many Kisses might it take--and give!
> 
> XXXVII.
> 
>  For I remember stopping by the way
>  To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
>    And with its all-obliterated Tongue
>  It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
> 
> XXXVIII.
> 
>  And has not such a Story from of Old
>  Down Man's successive generations roll'd
>    Of such a clod of saturated Earth
>  Cast by the Maker into Human mold?
> 
> XXXIX.
> 
>  And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
>  For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
>    To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
>  There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
> 
> XL.
> 
>  As then the Tulip for her morning sup
>  Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
>    Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
>  To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
> 
> XLI.
> 
>  Perplext 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.
> 
> XLII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> XLIII.
> 
>  So when that 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.
> 
> XLIV.
> 
>  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 carcass crippled to abide?
> 
> XLV.
> 
>  'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
>  A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
>    The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
>  Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
> 
> XLVI.
> 
>  And fear not lest Existence closing your
>  Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
>    The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
>  Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
> 
> XLVII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> XLVIII.
> 
>  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!
> 
> XLIX.
> 
>  Would you that spangle of Existence spend
>  About THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!
>    A Hair perhaps divides the False from True--
>  And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
> 
> L.
> 
>  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;
> 
> LI.
> 
>  Whose secret Presence through Creation's veins
>  Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
>    Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi and
>  They change and perish all--but He remains;
> 
> LII.
> 
>  A moment guessed--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.
> 
> LIII.
> 
>  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
>  TO-MORROW, when You shall be You no more?
> 
> LIV.
> 
>  Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
>  Of This and That endeavor and dispute;
>    Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
>  Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
> 
> LV.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LVI.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LVII.
> 
>  Ah, by my Computations, People say,
>  Reduce the Year to better reckoning?--Nay,
>    'Twas only striking from the Calendar
>  Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.
> 
> LVIII.
> 
>  And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
>  Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
>    Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
>  He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
> 
> LIX.
> 
>  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;
> 
> LX.
> 
>  The mighty Mahmud, 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.
> 
> LXI.
> 
>  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?
> 
> LXII.
> 
>  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!
> 
> LXIII.
> 
>  Of 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.
> 
> LXIV.
> 
>  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 discover we must travel too.
> 
> LXV.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXVI.
> 
>  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:"
> 
> LXVII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXVIII.
> 
>  We are no other than a moving row
>  Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
>    Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
>  In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
> 
> LXIX.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXX.
> 
>  The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
>  But Here or 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!
> 
> LXXI.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXXII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXXIII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXXIV.
> 
>  YESTERDAY This Day's Madness did prepare;
>  TO-MORROW's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
>    Drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why:
>  Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
> 
> LXXV.
> 
>  I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
>  Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
>    Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
>  In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
> 
> LXXVI.
> 
>  The Vine had struck a fiber: 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.
> 
> LXXVII.
> 
>  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.
> 
> LXXVIII.
> 
>  What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
>  A conscious Something to resent the yoke
>    Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
>  Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
> 
> LXXIX.
> 
>  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!
> 
> LXXX.
> 
>  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!
> 
> LXXXI.
> 
>  Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
>  And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
>    For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
>  Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
> 
> *****
> 
> LXXXII.
> 
>  As under cover of departing Day
>  Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
>    Once more within the Potter's house alone
>  I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
> 
> LXXXIII.
> 
>  Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
>  That stood along the floor and by the wall;
>    And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
>  Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
> 
> LXXXIV.
> 
>  Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
>  My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
>    And to this Figure molded, to be broke,
>  Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
> 
> LXXXV.
> 
>  Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
>  Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
>    And He that with his hand the Vessel made
>  Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
> 
> LXXXVI.
> 
>  After a momentary silence spake
>  Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
>    "They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
>  What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
> 
> LXXXVII.
> 
>  Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
>  I think a Sufi pipkin--waxing hot--
>    "All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
>  Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
> 
> LXXXVIII.
> 
>  "Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
>  Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
>    The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
>  He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
> 
> LXXXIX.
> 
>  "Well," murmured one, "Let whoso make or buy,
>  My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
>    But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
>  Methinks I might recover by and by."
> 
> XC.
> 
>  So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
>  The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
>    And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
>  Now for the Porter's shoulders' knot a-creaking!"
> 
> *****
> 
> XCI.
> 
>  Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide,
>  And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
>    And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
>  By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
> 
> XCII.
> 
>  That ev'n buried Ashes such a snare
>  Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
>    As not a True-believer passing by
>  But shall be overtaken unaware.
> 
> XCIII.
> 
>  Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
>  Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
>    Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,
>  And sold my reputation for a Song.
> 
> XCIV.
> 
>  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.
> 
> XCV.
> 
>  And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
>  And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor--Well,
>    I wonder often what the Vintners buy
>  One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
> 
> XCVI.
> 
>  Yet Ah, 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!
> 
> XCVII.
> 
>  Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
>  One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
>    To which the fainting Traveler might spring,
>  As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
> 
> XCVIII.
> 
>  Would but some winged Angel ere too late
>  Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
>    And make the stern Recorder otherwise
>  Enregister, or quite obliterate!
> 
> XCIX.
> 
>  Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
>  To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
>    Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
>  Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
> 
> C.
> 
>  Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
>  How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
>    How oft hereafter rising look for us
>  Through this same Garden--and for one in vain!
> 
> CI.
> 
>  And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
>  Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
>    And in your joyous errand reach the spot
>  Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!
> 
> TAMAM.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> [The references are, except in the first note only, to the stanzas of
> the Fifth edition.]
> 
> (Stanza I.) Flinging a Stone into the Cup was the signal for "To
> Horse!" in the Desert.
> 
> (II.) The "False Dawn"; Subhi Kazib, a transient Light on the Horizon
> about an hour before the Subhi sadik or True Dawn; a well-known
> Phenomenon in the East.
> 
> (IV.) New Year.  Beginning with the Vernal Equinox, it must be
> remembered; and (howsoever the old Solar Year is practically
> superseded by the clumsy Lunar Year that dates from the Mohammedan
> Hijra) still commemorated by a Festival that is said to have been
> appointed by the very Jamshyd whom Omar so often talks of, and whose
> yearly Calendar he helped to rectify.
> 
> "The sudden approach and rapid advance of the Spring," says Mr.
> Binning, "are very striking.  Before the Snow is well off the Ground,
> the Trees burst into Blossom, and the Flowers start from the Soil.  At
> Naw Rooz (their New Year's Day) the Snow was lying in patches on the
> Hills and in the shaded Vallies, while the Fruit-trees in the Garden
> were budding beautifully, and green Plants and Flowers springing upon
> the Plains on every side--
> 
>   'And on old Hyems' Chin and icy Crown
>    An odorous Chaplet of sweet Summer buds
>    Is, as in mockery, set--'--
> 
> Among the Plants newly appear'd I recognized some Acquaintances I had
> not seen for many a Year: among these, two varieties of the Thistle; a
> coarse species of the Daisy, like the Horse-gowan; red and white
> clover; the Dock; the blue Cornflower; and that vulgar Herb the
> Dandelion rearing its yellow crest on the Banks of the Water-courses."
> The Nightingale was not yet heard, for the Rose was not yet blown: but
> an almost identical Blackbird and Woodpecker helped to make up
> something of a North-country Spring.
> 
> "The White Hand of Moses."  Exodus iv. 6; where Moses draws forth his
> Hand--not, according to the Persians, "leprous as Snow," but white, as
> our May-blossom in Spring perhaps.  According to them also the Healing
> Power of Jesus resided in his Breath.
> 
> (V.) Iram, planted by King Shaddad, and now sunk somewhere in the
> Sands of Arabia.  Jamshyd's Seven-ring'd Cup was typical of the 7
> Heavens, 7 Planets, 7 Seas, &c., and was a Divining Cup.
> 
> (VI.) Pehlevi, the old Heroic Sanskrit of Persia.  Hafiz also speaks
> of the Nightingale's Pehlevi, which did not change with the People's.
> 
> I am not sure if the fourth line refers to the Red Rose looking
> sickly, or to the Yellow Rose that ought to be Red; Red, White, and
> Yellow Roses all common in Persia.  I think that Southey in his Common-
> Place Book, quotes from some Spanish author about the Rose being White
> till 10 o'clock; "Rosa Perfecta" at 2; and "perfecta incarnada" at 5.
> 
> (X.) Rustum, the "Hercules" of Persia, and Zal his Father, whose
> exploits are among the most celebrated in the Shahnama.  Hatim Tai, a
> well-known type of Oriental Generosity.
> 
> (XIII.) A Drum--beaten outside a Palace.
> 
> (XIV.) That is, the Rose's Golden Centre.
> 
> (XVIII.) Persepolis: call'd also Takht-i-Jam-shyd--THE THRONE OF
> JAMSHYD, "King Splendid," of the mythical Peshdadian Dynasty, and
> supposed (according to the Shah-nama) to have been founded and built
> by him.  Others refer it to the Work of the Genie King, Jan Ibn
> Jan--who also built the Pyramids--before the time of Adam.
> 
> BAHRAM GUR.--Bahram of the Wild Ass--a Sassanian Sovereign--had also
> his Seven Castles (like the King of Bohemia!) each of a different
> Colour: each with a Royal Mistress within; each of whom tells him a
> Story, as told in one of the most famous Poems of Persia, written by
> Amir Khusraw: all these Sevens also figuring (according to Eastern
> Mysticism) the Seven Heavens; and perhaps the Book itself that Eighth,
> into which the mystical Seven transcend, and within which they
> revolve.  The Ruins of Three of those Towers are yet shown by the
> Peasantry; as also the Swamp in which Bahram sunk, like the Master of
> Ravenswood, while pursuing his Gur.
> 
>   The Palace that to Heav'n his pillars threw,
>   And Kings the forehead on his threshold drew--
>      I saw the solitary Ringdove there,
>   And "Coo, coo, coo," she cried; and "Coo, coo, coo."
> 
> [Included in Nicolas's edition as No. 350 of the Rubaiyat, and also in
> Mr. Whinfield's translation.]
> 
> This Quatrain Mr. Binning found, among several of Hafiz and others,
> inscribed by some stray hand among the ruins of Persepolis.  The
> Ringdove's ancient Pehlevi Coo, Coo, Coo, signifies also in Persian
> "Where? Where?  Where?"  In Attar's "Bird-parliament" she is reproved
> by the Leader of the Birds for sitting still, and for ever harping on
> that one note of lamentation for her lost Yusuf.
> 
> Apropos of Omar's Red Roses in Stanza xix, I am reminded of an old
> English Superstition, that our Anemone Pulsatilla, or purple "Pasque
> Flower," (which grows plentifully about the Fleam Dyke, near
> Cambridge,) grows only where Danish Blood has been spilt.
> 
> (XXI.) A thousand years to each Planet.
> 
> (XXXI.) Saturn, Lord of the Seventh Heaven.
> 
> (XXXII.) ME-AND-THEE: some dividual Existence or Personality distinct
> from the Whole.
> 
> (XXXVII.) One of the Persian Poets--Attar, I think--has a pretty story
> about this.  A thirsty Traveller dips his hand into a Spring of Water
> to drink from.  By-and-by comes another who draws up and drinks from
> an earthen bowl, and then departs, leaving his Bowl behind him.  The
> first Traveller takes it up for another draught; but is surprised to
> find that the same Water which had tasted sweet from his own hand
> tastes bitter from the earthen Bowl.  But a Voice--from Heaven, I
> think--tells him the clay from which the Bowl is made was once Man;
> and, into whatever shape renew'd, can never lose the bitter flavour of
> Mortality.
> 
> (XXXIX.) The custom of throwing a little Wine on the ground before
> drinking still continues in Persia, and perhaps generally in the East.
> Mons. Nicolas considers it "un signe de liberalite, et en meme temps
> un avertissement que le buveur doit vider sa coupe jusqu'a la derniere
> goutte."  Is it not more likely an ancient Superstition; a Libation to
> propitiate Earth, or make her an Accomplice in the illicit Revel?  Or,
> perhaps, to divert the Jealous Eye by some sacrifice of superfluity,
> as with the Ancients of the West?  With Omar we see something more is
> signified; the precious Liquor is not lost, but sinks into the ground
> to refresh the dust of some poor Wine-worshipper foregone.
> 
> Thus Hafiz, copying Omar in so many ways: "When thou drinkest Wine
> pour a draught on the ground.  Wherefore fear the Sin which brings to
> another Gain?"
> 
> (XLIII.) According to one beautiful Oriental Legend, Azrael
> accomplishes his mission by holding to the nostril an Apple from the
> Tree of Life.
> 
> This, and the two following Stanzas would have been withdrawn, as
> somewhat de trop, from the Text, but for advice which I least like to
> disregard.
> 
> (LI.) From Mah to Mahi; from Fish to Moon.
> 
> (LVI.) A Jest, of course, at his Studies.  A curious mathematical
> Quatrain of Omar's has been pointed out to me; the more curious
> because almost exactly parallel'd by some Verses of Doctor Donne's,
> that are quoted in Izaak Walton's Lives!  Here is Omar: "You and I are
> the image of a pair of compasses; though we have two heads (sc. our
> feet) we have one body; when we have fixed the centre for our circle,
> we bring our heads (sc. feet) together at the end."  Dr. Donne:
> 
>   If we be two, we two are so
>      As stiff twin-compasses are two;
>   Thy Soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
>      To move, but does if the other do.
> 
>   And though thine in the centre sit,
>      Yet when my other far does roam,
>   Thine leans and hearkens after it,
>      And rows erect as mine comes home.
> 
>   Such thou must be to me, who must
>      Like the other foot obliquely run;
>   Thy firmness makes my circle just,
>      And me to end where I begun.
> 
> (LIX.) The Seventy-two Religions supposed to divide the World,
> including Islamism, as some think: but others not.
> 
> (LX.) Alluding to Sultan Mahmud's Conquest of India and its dark
> people.
> 
> (LXVIII.) Fanusi khiyal, a Magic-lanthorn still used in India; the
> cylindrical Interior being painted with various Figures, and so
> lightly poised and ventilated as to revolve round the lighted Candle
> within.
> 
> (LXX.) A very mysterious Line in the Original:
> 
>    O danad O danad O danad O--
> 
> breaking off something like our Wood-pigeon's Note, which she is said
> to take up just where she left off.
> 
> (LXXV.) Parwin and Mushtari--The Pleiads and Jupiter.
> 
> (LXXXVII.) This Relation of Pot and Potter to Man and his Maker
> figures far and wide in the Literature of the World, from the time of
> the Hebrew Prophets to the present; when it may finally take the name
> of "Pot theism," by which Mr. Carlyle ridiculed Sterling's
> "Pantheism."  My Sheikh, whose knowledge flows in from all quarters,
> writes to me--
> 
> "Apropos of old Omar's Pots, did I ever tell you the sentence I found
> in 'Bishop Pearson on the Creed'?  'Thus are we wholly at the disposal
> of His will, and our present and future condition framed and ordered
> by His free, but wise and just, decrees.  Hath not the potter power
> over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and
> another unto dishonour?  (Rom. ix. 21.)  And can that earth-artificer
> have a freer power over his brother potsherd (both being made of the
> same metal), than God hath over him, who, by the strange fecundity of
> His omnipotent power, first made the clay out of nothing, and then him
> out of that?'"
> 
> And again--from a very different quarter--"I had to refer the other
> day to Aristophanes, and came by chance on a curious Speaking-pot
> story in the Vespae, which I had quite forgotten.
> 
> [Greek text deleted from etext.]
> 
> "The Pot calls a bystander to be a witness to his bad treatment.  The
> woman says, 'If, by Proserpine, instead of all this 'testifying'
> (comp. Cuddie and his mother in 'Old Mortality!') you would buy
> yourself a rivet, it would show more sense in you!'  The Scholiast
> explains echinus as [Greek phrase deleted from etext]."
> 
> One more illustration for the oddity's sake from the "Autobiography of
> a Cornish Rector," by the late James Hamley Tregenna.  1871.
> 
> "There was one odd Fellow in our Company--he was so like a Figure in
> the 'Pilgrim's Progress' that Richard always called him the
> 'ALLEGORY,' with a long white beard--a rare Appendage in those
> days--and a Face the colour of which seemed to have been baked in,
> like the Faces one used to see on Earthenware Jugs.  In our Country-
> dialect Earthenware is called 'Clome'; so the Boys of the Village used
> to shout out after him--'Go back to the Potter, Old Clomeface, and get
> baked over again.'  For the 'Allegory,' though shrewd enough in most
> things, had the reputation of being 'saift-baked,' i.e., of weak
> intellect."
> 
> (XC.) At the Close of the Fasting Month, Ramazan (which makes the
> Mussulman unhealthy and unamiable), the first Glimpse of the New Moon
> (who rules their division of the Year) is looked for with the utmost
> Anxiety, and hailed with Acclamation.  Then it is that the Porter's
> Knot maybe heard--toward the Cellar.  Omar has elsewhere a pretty
> Quatrain about the same Moon--
> 
>  "Be of Good Cheer--the sullen Month will die,
>   And a young Moon requite us by and by:
>     Look how the Old one meagre, bent, and wan
>   With Age and Fast, is fainting from the Sky!"
>
> — *Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam — Edward FitzGerald (Public Domain (Project Gutenberg))*