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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374736" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>From Omar Khayyam</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough, <br>A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou <br> Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- <br>O, Wilderness were Paradise enow! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some for the Glories of This World; and some <br>Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; <br> Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, <br>Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look to the blowing Rose about us--'Lo, <br>Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow, <br> At once the silken tassel of my Purse <br>Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And those who husbanded the Golden grain <br>And those who flung it to the winds like Rain <br> Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd <br>As, buried once, Men want dug up again. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai <br>Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, <br> How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp <br>Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They say the Lion and the Lizard keep <br>The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: <br> And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the wild Ass <br>Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sometimes think that never blows so red <br>The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; <br> That every Hyacinth the Garden wears <br>Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And this reviving Herb whose tender Green <br>Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-- <br> Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows <br>From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears <br>TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears: <br> To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be <br>Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For some we loved, the loveliest and the best <br>That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, <br> Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, <br>And one by one crept silently to rest. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And we, that now make merry in the Room <br>They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, <br> Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth <br>Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, <br>Before we too into the Dust descend; <br> Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, <br>Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, <br>And wash my Body whence the Life has died, <br> And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, <br>By some not unfrequented Garden-side.... </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-- <br>How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; <br> How oft hereafter rising look or us <br>Through this same Garden--and for one in vain! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when like her O Sákí, you shall pass <br>Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass, <br> And in your joyous errand reach the spot <br>Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">WITH blackest moss the flower-plots <br> Were thickly crusted, one and all: <br>The rusted nails fell from the knots <br> That held the pear to the gable-wall. <br>The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: <br> Unlifted was the clinking latch; <br> Weeded and worn the ancient thatch <br>Upon the lonely moated grange. <br> She only said, 'My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not,' she said; <br> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her tears fell with the dews at even; <br> Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; <br>She could not look on the sweet heaven, <br> Either at morn or eventide. <br>After the flitting of the bats, <br> When thickest dark did trance the sky, <br> She drew her casement-curtain by, <br>And glanced athwart the glooming flats. <br> She only said, 'The night is dreary, <br> He cometh not,' she said; <br> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the middle of the night, <br> Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: <br>The cock sung out an hour ere light: <br> From the dark fen the oxen's low <br>Came to her: without hope of change, <br> In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, <br> Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn <br>About the lonely moated grange. <br> She only said, 'The day is dreary, <br> He cometh not,' she said; <br> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">About a stone-cast from the wall <br> A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, <br>And o'er it many, round and small, <br> The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. <br>Hard by a poplar shook alway, <br> All silver-green with gnarled bark: <br> For leagues no other tree did mark <br>The level waste, the rounding gray. <br> She only said, 'My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not,' she said; <br> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And ever when the moon was low, <br> And the shrill winds were up and away, <br>In the white curtain, to and fro, <br> She saw the gusty shadow sway. <br>But when the moon was very low, <br> And wild winds bound within their cell, <br> The shadow of the poplar fell <br>Upon her bed, across her brow. <br> She only said, 'The night is dreary, <br> He cometh not,' she said; <br> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, <br> I would that I were dead!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day within the dreamy house, <br> The doors upon their hinges creak'd; <br>The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse <br> Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, <br>Or from the crevice peer'd about. <br> Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, <br> Old footsteps trod the upper floors, <br>Old voices call'd her from without. <br> She only said, 'My life is dreary, <br> He cometh not,' she said; <br> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,' <br> I would that I were dead!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, <br> The slow clock ticking, and the sound <br>Which to the wooing wind aloof <br> The poplar made, did all confound <br>Her sense; but most she loathed the hour <br> When the thick-moted sunbeam lay <br> Athwart the chambers, and the day <br>Was sloping toward his western bower. <br> Then, said she, 'I am very dreary, <br> He will not come,' she said; <br> She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary, <br> O God, that I were dead!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edward+Fitzgerald">Edward Fitzgerald</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374736" data-title="From Omar Khayyam de Edward Fitzgerald" data-description="I A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- O, Wilderness were Paradise enow! Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's..."></div> </div> </div>
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