119 quotes
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."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
And strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried —
"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Of threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain — This Life flies.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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?
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Whether at Naishapur 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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
"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."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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?
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd — Man's forgiveness give — and take!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
"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."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)