Seven Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

   

Seven Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

                   1                                                                                

I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;

    That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropped in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

                 2
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!

                 3

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears:
    Tomorrow!--Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

                 4

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

                 5

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?

                 6

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!

                 7

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.

Edward FitzGerald's wonderfully translation