From The Rubbiyat of Omar Khayyam

Translated from persian by Edward FitzGerald

1
Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sulttn's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

2
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?"

3
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shoutedd"Open then the Door!
"You know how little while we have to stay,
"And, once departed, may return no more."

4
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

5
Irrm indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshhd's Sev'n-ringed Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.

6
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevv, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
"Red Wine!""the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.

7
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 flutterrand the Bird is on the Wing.

8
Whether at Naishhppr 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.

9
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshhd and Kaikobbd away.


From The Rubbiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishhpour

One day I wrote her name upon the strand

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalize!
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name be wiped out likewise.
Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name;
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.


Edmund Spenser