And do you think that unto such as you, A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew, God gave the Secret, and denied it me? — Well, well, what matters it!… - Omar Khayyám

And do you think that unto such as you
A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew
God gave a secret, and denied it me?
Well, well — what matters it? Believe that, too!

Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee;
If only you were half so good as he!
He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness,
Great-hearted mirth, and kind adultery.

But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue,
The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,
The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,
And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears — To-morrow? — Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

And when like her, oh, Saki, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One — turn down an empty Glass!

The mighty Mahmúd, 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.