119 quotes
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line,
And, "Up-and-down" without, I could define,
I yet in all I only cared to know,
Was never deep in anything but — Wine.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse — why, then, Who set it there?
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress — slender Minister of Wine.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted — "Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Ah, fill the Cup: — what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour — well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again —
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden — and for one in vain!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me — in vain!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust Descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and — sans End!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the 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.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
Said one — "Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
"And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
"They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish!
"He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
In divine
High piping Péhlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
"Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of her's to'incarnadine.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue —
Could you but find it — to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too.
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot —
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup — when crumbled into Dust!
FitzGerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859)