119 quotes
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Would but some wing'ed Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hátim Tai cry Supper — heed them not.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
A moment guess'd — then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"—think some:
Others — "How blest the Paradise to come!"
Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
And pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all — but He remains.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd — "While you live
Drink! — for, once dead, you never shall return."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning? — Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore — but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)