RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM

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 Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.

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."

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."

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.

Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose, And Jamshýd'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.

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

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.

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 Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot: Let Rustum lay about him as he will, Or Hátim Tai cry Supper—heed them not.

With me along some Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known, And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.

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.

"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!

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."

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.

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.

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep; And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

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!

Ah, my Belovéd, 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.

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.

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?

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.

Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after a To-morrow stare, A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"

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.

Oh, come with old Khayyám, 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.

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.

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."

Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after a To-morrow stare, A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries, "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"

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!

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.

What, without asking, hither hurried whence? And, without asking, whither hurried hence! Another and another Cup to drown The Memory of this Impertinence!

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.

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 seem'd—and then no more of Thee and Me.

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.

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."

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!

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!"

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!

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!

How long, how long, in definite Pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute? Better be merry with the fruitful Grape Than sadder after none, or bitter, Fruit.

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.

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.

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!

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.

The mighty Mahmúd, 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.

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.

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.

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.

While the Rose blows along the River Brink, With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink: And when the Angel with his darker Draught Draws up to Thee—take that, and do not shrink.

'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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

I tell Thee this—When, starting from the Goal, Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal Of Heav'n and Parwín and Mushtara they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about If clings my Being—let the Súfi flout; Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

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.

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?

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!

Listen again. One evening at the Close Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose, In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone With the clay Population round in Rows.

And, strange to tell, among the Earthen Lot Some could articulate, while others not: And suddenly one more impatient cried— "Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

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."

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!"

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?"

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."

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!"

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!"

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt, So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

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 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.

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.

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.

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, 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!

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!

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!

Wake! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night; And, to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, "When all the Temple is prepared within, Why lags the drowsy Worshipper outside?"

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."

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.

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine, And many a Garden by the Water blows.

And David's lips are lockt; but in divine High-piping Péhleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.

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.

Whether at Naishápúr 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.

Morning 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 Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

Well, let it take them! What have we to do With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú? Let Rustum cry "To Battle!" as he likes, Or Hátim Tai "To Supper"—heed not you.

With me along the Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot— And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne?

Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

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!

With me along the Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot— And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne?

Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the promise go, Nor heed the music of a distant Drum!

Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin The Thread of present Life away to win— What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!

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."

For 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.

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—was gone.

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep: And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

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."

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears To-day of past Regret and Future Fears: To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.

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?

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this delightful Herb whose living 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!

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!

Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after some To-morrow stare, A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries, "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."

Another Voice, when I am sleeping, cries, "The Flower should open with the Morning skies." And a retreating Whisper, as I wake— "The Flower that once has blown for ever dies."

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.

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.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with my 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."

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.

What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? And, without asking, Whither hurried hence! Ah! contrite Heav'n endowed us with the Vine To drug the memory of that insolence!

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 Master-Knot of Human Fate.

There was the Door to which I found no Key: There was the Veil through which I could not see: Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.

Earth could not answer: nor the Seas that mourn In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; Nor Heaven, with those eternal Signs reveal'd And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.

Then of the Thee in Me who works behind The Veil of Universe I cried to find A Lamp to guide me through the Darkness; and Something then said—"An Understanding blind."

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, 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."

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer'd, once did live, And drink; and that impassive Lip I kiss'd, How many Kisses might it take—and give!

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!"

For 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 mould?

And not a drop that from our Cups we throw On the parcht herbage but may steal below To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye There hidden—far beneath, and long ago.

As then the Tulip for her wonted sup Of Heavenly Vintage lifts her chalice up, Do you, twin offspring of the soil, till Heav'n To Earth invert you like an empty Cup.

Do you, within your little hour of Grace, The waving Cypress in your Arms enlace, Before the Mother back into her arms Fold, and dissolve you in a last embrace.

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."

Do you, within your little hour of Grace, The waving Cypress in your Arms enlace, Before the Mother back into her arms Fold, and dissolve you in a last embrace.

And if the Cup you drink, the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in—Yes; Imagine then you are what heretofore You were—hereafter you shall not be less.

So when at last the Angel of the drink Of Darkness finds you by the river-brink, And, proffering his Cup, invites your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff it—do not shrink.

And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, should lose, or know the type no more; The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

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 much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.

One Moment in Annihilation's Waste, One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste— The Stars are setting, and the Caravan Draws to the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!

Would you that spangle of Existence spend About THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend! A Hair, they say, divides the False and True— And upon what, prithee, does Life depend?

A Hair, they say, 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;

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;

A moment guess'd—then back behind the Fold Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, He does Himself contrive, enact, behold.

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, You when shall be You no more?

Oh, plagued no more With Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to itself resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute; Better be merry with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

You know, my Friends, how bravely 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

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.

Ah, but my Computations, People say, Have squared the Year to human compass, eh? If so, by striking from the Calendar Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

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!

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:

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.

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?

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, When the frail Cup is crumbled into Dust!

If but the Vine and Love-abjuring Band Are in the Prophet's Paradise to stand, Alack, I doubt the Prophet's Paradise Were empty as the hollow of one's Hand.

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 is blown for ever dies.

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.

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 fellows, and to Sleep return'd.

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Is't not a Shame—is't not a Shame for him So long in this Clay suburb to abide!

But that is but a Tent wherein may rest A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And after many days my Soul return'd And said, "Behold, Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

We are no other than a moving row Of visionary Shapes that come and go Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

Impotent 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.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, He knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!

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.

For let Philosopher and Doctor preach Of what they will, and what they will not—each Is but one Link in an eternal Chain That none can slip, nor break, nor overreach.

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help—for It As impotently rolls as you or I.

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.

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.

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 predestined Plot of Dust and Soul

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.

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.

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent us dross-allay'd Sue for a Debt we never did contract, And cannot answer—Oh, the sorry trade!

Nay, but, for terror of his wrathful Face, I swear I will not call Injustice Grace; Not one Good Fellow of the Tavern but Would kick so poor a Coward from the place.

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!

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man Is black with—Man's Forgiveness give—and take!

As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away, Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

And once again there gathered a scarce heard Whisper among them; as it were, the stirr'd Ashes of some all but extinguisht Tongue, Which mine ear kindled into living Word.

Said one among them—"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 shapeless Earth again?"

Another said—"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Cup from which he drank in Joy; Shall He that of His own free Fancy made The Vessel, in an after-rage destroy!"

None answer'd this; but after 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?"

Thus with the Dead as with the Living, What? And Why? so ready, but the Wherefor not, One on a sudden peevishly exclaim'd, "Which is the Potter, pray, and which the Pot?"

Said one—"Folks of a surly Master tell, And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell; They talk of some sharp Trial of us—Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

"Well," said another, "Whoso will, let try, My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry: But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by-and-by!"

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! Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

Whither resorting from the vernal Heat Shall Old Acquaintance Old Acquaintance greet, Under the Branch that leans above the Wall To shed his Blossom over head and feet.

Then ev'n my 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.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in Men's eye much wrong: Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup And sold my Reputation for a Song.

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.

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 ware they sell.

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!

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed reveal'd, Toward which the fainting Traveller might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

Oh, if the World were but to re-create, That we might catch ere closed the Book of Fate, And make The Writer on a fairer leaf Inscribe our names, or quite obliterate!

Better, oh, better, cancel from the Scroll Of Universe one luckless Human Soul, Than drop by drop enlarge the Flood that rolls Hoarser with Anguish as the Ages Roll.

Ah, Love! could you 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!

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

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."

But see! The rising Moon of Heav'n again— Looks for us, Sweet-heart, through the quivering Plane: How oft hereafter rising will she look Among those leaves—for one of us in vain!

And when Yourself with silver Foot 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!

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 Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

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 Worshipper outside?"

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."

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.

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, And Jamshýd'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.

And David's lips are lockt; but in divine High-piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.

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.

Whether at Naishápúr 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.

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 Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

Well, let it take them! What have we to do With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú? Let Zál and Rustum bluster as they will, Or Hátim call to Supper—heed not you.

With me along the strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot— And Peace to Mahmúd on his golden Throne!

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!

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!

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."

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.

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.

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep: And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head

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!

Ah, my Belovéd, 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.

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.

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?

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!

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!"

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.

Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after some To-morrow stare, A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."

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.

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.

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."

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.

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!

Up from Earth's Centre 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.

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.

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.

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!"

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."

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!

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!"

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 mould?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

'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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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;

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;

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.

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, You when shall be You no more?

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.

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

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.

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.

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!

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:

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.

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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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:"

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.

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;

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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 predestined Plot of Dust and Soul

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.

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.

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

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!

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!

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradist devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd—Man's forgiveness give—and take!

As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away, Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

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.

Said one among them—-"Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

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."

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?"

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot— I think a Súfi pipkin—waxing hot— "All this of Pot and Potter—Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

"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."

"Well," murmur'd 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."

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 shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

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.

That ev'n my 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.

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.

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.

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—Well, I wonder often what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

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!

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd, To which the fainting Traveller might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

Would but some wingéd Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate!

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-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

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!

And when like her, oh, Sákí, 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!

Wake! For the Sun before him into Night A signal flung that put the Stars to flight; And, to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Well, let it take them! What have we to do With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú? Let Zál and Rustum thunder as they will, Or Hátim Tai "To supper!"—heed not you.

For, in your Ear a moment—of the same Poor Earth from which that Human whisper came, The luckless Mould in which Mankind was cast They did compose, and call'd him by the name.

Listen—a moment listen!—Of the same Poor Earth from which that Human Whisper came, The luckless Mould in which Mankind was cast They did compose, and call'd him by the name.

As then the Tulip from her wonted sup Of Wine from Heav'n her little Tass lifts ups Do you, twin offspring of the soil, till Heav'n To Earth invert you like an empty cup.

And if the Cup, and if the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in—Yes; Imagine then you are what heretofore You were—hereafter you shall not be less.

A Moment's Halt—a momentary taste Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste— Before the starting Caravan has reach'd The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!

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!

Better, oh, better, cancel from the Scroll Of Universe one luckless Human Soul, Than drop by drop enlarge the Flood that rolls Hoarser with Anguish as the Ages Roll.