Omar Khayyám Quotes

The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and 'twas — the Grape!

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.

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define, Of all that one should care to fathom, Was never deep in anything but — Wine.

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

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.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door You gaze To-day, while You are You — how then To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?

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.

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;

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;

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?

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!

When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.

And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.