Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam Part 15

LXI

Why, be this Juice the growth of G.o.d, 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?

LXII

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!

LXIII

Oh, threats of h.e.l.l 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.

LXIV

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us pa.s.s'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.

LXV

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.

LXVI

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 h.e.l.l:"

LXVII

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And h.e.l.l the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXVIII

We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX

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.

LXX

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, _He_ knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!

LXXI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXXII

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It As impotently moves as you or I.

LXXIII

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read

LXXIV

YESTERDAY _This_ Day's Madness did prepare; TO-MORROW'S Silence, Triumph, or Despair: Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

LXXV

I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul

LXXVI

The Vine had struck a fibre: which about If clings my being--let the Dervish flout; Of my Base metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXXVII

And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite, One Flash of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright.

LXXVIII

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

LXXIX

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd-- Sue for a Debt he never did contract, And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade!

Lx.x.x