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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=532706" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On Reading Omar Khayyam</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In the midst of the battle I turned, <br>(For the thunders could flourish without me) <br>And hid by a rose-hung wall, <br>Forgetting the murder about me; <br>And wrote, from my wound, on the stone, <br>In mirth, half prayer, half play: — <br>&quot;Send me a picture book, <br>Send me a song, to-day.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw him there by the wall <br>When I scarce had written the line, <br>In the enemy's colors dressed <br>And the serpent-standard of wine <br>Writhing its withered length <br>From his ghostly hands o'er the ground, <br>And there by his shadowy breast <br>The glorious poem I found. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This was his world-old cry: <br>Thus read the famous prayer: <br>&quot;Wine, wine, wine and flowers <br>And cup-bearers always fair!&quot; <br>'Twas a book of the snares of earth <br>Bordered in gold and blue, <br>And I read each line to the wind <br>And read to the roses too: <br>And they nodded their womanly heads <br>And told to the wall just why <br>For wine of the earth men bleed, <br>Kingdoms and empires die. <br>I envied the grape stained sage: <br>(The roses were praising him.) <br>The ways of the world seemed good <br>And the glory of heaven dim. <br>I envied the endless kings <br>Who found great pearls in the mire, <br>Who bought with the nation's life <br>The cup of delicious fire. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the wine of God came down, <br>And I drank it out of the air. <br>(Fair is the serpent-cup, <br>But the cup of God more fair.) <br>The wine of God came down <br>That makes no drinker to weep. <br>And I went back to battle again <br>Leaving the singer asleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Vachel+Lindsay">Vachel Lindsay</a><div class=q>
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In the midst of the battle I turned, 
(For the thunders could flourish without me) 
And hid by a rose-hung wall, 
Forgetting the murder about me; 
And wrote, from my wound, on the stone, 
In..."></div>
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