Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.
A
selection of quatrains from Edward Fitzgerald's translation of the
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. |
|
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and 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. |
Those I've adored that born to freedom's
Hope,
Know not a Course but "Carpe Diem!", They've
Life's Bottle tasted fervently till All
Turn in to sleep, and now are in the Grave. |
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! |
When Heaven did feed a wicked Satan's Glee
Must I that Hearth in Hades seek to fan?
No, from the wretched Shame of evil Works
With Kindness fair, I absolve both God and Man! |
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. |
Apollo hefts that Gauntlet high, and throws!
That Artemis affronting Gesture's Sight
Thrusts out anon her Tent of Black. Ah too,
The Sun effulgent shone, in Halo White. |
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! |
A Poem, and Trees a-blowing in a wind.
A Brew I'll Drink - base Needs of other Stuff
Ignore. Ah see here how we do behave,
Indeed for us, a song is just enough. |
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. |
I'd seek a Lord transcendent, that all Things
Can plan - He'd end intending Virtue bright?
"If all Men grovel badly in rude Sin,
"Wilt Thou, kind-hearted, help?" - He said, "I
might." |
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. |
No Mark when put into that Log of Life,
Will vary, it's inviolate - is unchanged!
A Cry shall not revise thy total Worth,
Nor on a Whim will Facts be rearranged. |
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? |
Heed the shy Urn that, leaning awkward there,
Laments: "O No! Why me? for Heaven's sake!
"Of any and all Hope bereft?" - It seems
A gentle Artist finer Pains could take. |
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! |
How wrong! when Instinct's Hand a Man at Birth
Clothes with hot, pure, and wistful Passion high,
Then Age wreaks all that windy Havoc's Change.
Ah, the stern, senseless Thought: the Soul can die! |
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. |
To worry of men's Pedigrees? Do not!
Or of their Righteousness, their Sins mundane.
I'll fete the Women in Seraglios;
Let's drown in lusty Rivers of Champagne! |
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. |
Ere you by Charon to a frigid Realm
Of Death are ferried by his Ark, thy Chance
Lose not to revel in Love's sumptuous Glow,
Warm Sensibility, and Touch - Romance! |
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. |
I'd beg a sip, if it be April grape,
Romancing life before its thrill doth melt.
Youth in the wind can flutter off, O then
No new enchantment with dry age's felt. |
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. |
It seems, when in a shaded silent Park,
That every Blossom, every Chaplet's Bud,
Grows rather more attractive to Man's Eye
On Soil enriched here with famed Heroes' Blood. |
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. |
Equations cubic do my hard Proofs solve!
But how may Man's poor Path make any Sense?
Oh by my "Hard Ordeal Theorem" try
Eradicating past and future Tense. |
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted Tendril as Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse - why, then, Who set it there? |
Hiss at the Grape, God's Gift to us with which
We wash the wounded Heart? Let's not! Indeed,
We shed our Torments. Ah, her blissful Joy!
The curly Bine's a Weal - This be no Weed! |
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the Yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under Pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke! |
So! tease and offer Men the keen Enticing
To seek for Love yet punishing, suppress?
O this, it looks to be one utter wanting,
Cold Formula to reave our Happiness! |
