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Philosopher, astronomer and mathematician, Khayyam as a poet possesses a singular originality. His poetry is richly charged with evocative power and offers a view of life characteristic of his stormy times, with striking relevance to the present day. For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE By EDWARD FITZGERALD. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS By EDMUND DULAC. GARDEN CITY, NY 1952.
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE By EDWARD FITZGERALD. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS By EDMUND DULAC. GARDEN CITY, NY 1952.
184 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1120
3,356 people are currently reading
23.5k people want to read
About the author
Omar Khayy¨¢m
409?books1,250?followersArabic: Persian:
Kurdish: ????? ??????
Omar Khayy¨¢m was a Persian polymath, mathematician, philosopher, astronomer, physician, and poet. He wrote treatises on mechanics, geography, and music. His significance as a philosopher and teacher, and his few remaining philosophical works, have not received the same attention as his scientific and poetic writings. Zamakhshari referred to him as ¡°the philosopher of the world¡±. Many sources have testified that he taught for decades the philosophy of Ibn Sina in Nishapur where Khayy¨¢m was born buried and where his mausoleum remains today a masterpiece of Iranian architecture visited by many people every year.
Outside Iran and Persian speaking countries, Khayy¨¢m has had impact on literature and societies through translation and works of scholars. The greatest such impact among several others was in English-speaking countries; the English scholar Thomas Hyde (1636¨C1703) was the first non-Persian to study him. The most influential of all was Edward FitzGerald (1809¨C83), who made Khayy¨¢m the most famous poet of the East in the West through his celebrated translation and adaptations of Khayy¨¢m's rather small number of quatrains (rubaiyaas) in ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m.'
Kurdish: ????? ??????
Omar Khayy¨¢m was a Persian polymath, mathematician, philosopher, astronomer, physician, and poet. He wrote treatises on mechanics, geography, and music. His significance as a philosopher and teacher, and his few remaining philosophical works, have not received the same attention as his scientific and poetic writings. Zamakhshari referred to him as ¡°the philosopher of the world¡±. Many sources have testified that he taught for decades the philosophy of Ibn Sina in Nishapur where Khayy¨¢m was born buried and where his mausoleum remains today a masterpiece of Iranian architecture visited by many people every year.
Outside Iran and Persian speaking countries, Khayy¨¢m has had impact on literature and societies through translation and works of scholars. The greatest such impact among several others was in English-speaking countries; the English scholar Thomas Hyde (1636¨C1703) was the first non-Persian to study him. The most influential of all was Edward FitzGerald (1809¨C83), who made Khayy¨¢m the most famous poet of the East in the West through his celebrated translation and adaptations of Khayy¨¢m's rather small number of quatrains (rubaiyaas) in ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m.'
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August 10, 2021
The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayy¨¢m, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
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!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
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.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
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.
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
XLIX
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?
L
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;
LI
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;
LII
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.
LIII
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?
LIV
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.
LV
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.
LVI
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.
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
LIX
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:
LX
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.
LXI
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?
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 Hell 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 pass'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 Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell 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!
...
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Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
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!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
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.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
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.
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
XLIX
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?
L
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;
LI
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;
LII
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.
LIII
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?
LIV
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.
LV
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.
LVI
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.
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
LIX
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:
LX
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.
LXI
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?
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 Hell 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 pass'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 Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell 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!
...
????? ?????? ????? ??? ????: ??? ????? ??? 2004 ??????
?? ?????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? ?? ?????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????????? ????? ???? ???? ? ????? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?????????? ????? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ????????? ?? ???? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ? ???????? ?????? ????? ????????? ?????? 1342 ???? ???? ?? ???? ??? ??? ?????? ?????? ???? ? ???????: ?????? ????????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ???? ? ? ???? ??? ?????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ???? ????? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ? ??? ??? ? ???? ????? ?? ??? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ?????? ? ?????? ???????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ?????? ? ??? ??? ???????
????? ?? ?? ??? ????? ???????? - ?? ????? ? ???? ?? ???? ???????
??? ????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ????? - ???????? ? ???? ?????? ???????
***
?? ??? ?? ??? ?????? ????? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ????? ????
?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? - ??? ???? ???? ??????? ????
***
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ???? ??
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ?? ????? - ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?????
***
????? ?? ??? ? ??? ?????? ???? - ??? ???? ?? ? ?? ??? ?????? ???
????? ??? ?? ?? ??????? ? ???? - ???? ??? ??? ?? ????? ???
????
????? ?????? ????? 18/05/1400???? ???????? ?. ???????
October 5, 2021
??????? ??? ???? ?? ????? ??????? = Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayyam
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
The Slender Story of his Life is curiously twined about that of two other very considerable Figures in their Time and Country: one of whom tells the Story of all Three. This was Nizam ul Mulk, Vizier to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the Grandson, of Toghrul Beg the Tartar, who had wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of Mahmud the Great, and founded that Seljukian Dynasty which finally roused Europe into the Crusades.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
????? ?????? ????? ??? ????: ?? ??? ????? ??? 2004??????
?????: ??????? ??? ???? ?? ????? ???????? ????: ??? ????? ?????: ??? ?????? ?????? - ??? 12?
***
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ???? ??
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??????? - ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?????
***
????? ?? ??? ? ??? ?????? ???? - ??? ???? ?? ? ?? ??? ?????? ???
????? ??? ?? ?? ??????? ? ???? - ???? ??? ??? ?? ????? ???
????
?? ????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? ?????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????????? ????? ????? ? ????? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?????????? ????? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ?????????? ?? ???? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ? ????????? ?????? ?????? ????????? ?????? 1342???? ??????? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ??? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ??????? ?????????? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ???? ? ???? ??? ???????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ???? ????? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ? ??? ??? ? ????? ?????? ?? ???? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??????? ???????? ? ?????? ???????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ???? ????? ? ??? ??? ???????
????? ?????? ????? 25/07/1399???? ???????? 12/07/1400???? ???????? ?. ???????
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
The Slender Story of his Life is curiously twined about that of two other very considerable Figures in their Time and Country: one of whom tells the Story of all Three. This was Nizam ul Mulk, Vizier to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the Grandson, of Toghrul Beg the Tartar, who had wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of Mahmud the Great, and founded that Seljukian Dynasty which finally roused Europe into the Crusades.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
????? ?????? ????? ??? ????: ?? ??? ????? ??? 2004??????
?????: ??????? ??? ???? ?? ????? ???????? ????: ??? ????? ?????: ??? ?????? ?????? - ??? 12?
***
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ???? ??
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??????? - ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?????
***
????? ?? ??? ? ??? ?????? ???? - ??? ???? ?? ? ?? ??? ?????? ???
????? ??? ?? ?? ??????? ? ???? - ???? ??? ??? ?? ????? ???
????
?? ????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? ?????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????????? ????? ????? ? ????? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?????????? ????? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ?????????? ?? ???? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ? ????????? ?????? ?????? ????????? ?????? 1342???? ??????? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ??? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ??????? ?????????? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ???? ? ???? ??? ???????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ???? ????? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ? ??? ??? ? ????? ?????? ?? ???? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??????? ???????? ? ?????? ???????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ???? ????? ? ??? ??? ???????
????? ?????? ????? 25/07/1399???? ???????? 12/07/1400???? ???????? ?. ???????
October 9, 2020
?????? ?? ?? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ????? ?????. ?? ????? ?? ???? ???? ?? ??? ? ????? ??? ?????? ? ??? ???? ????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ???? ???????? ? ???? ???? ??? ??? ???? ?? ???? ??? ??? ?????? ?? ???: ??????? ?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????? ?? ?? ?? ???? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ????? ??? ?????? ????? ????? ???? ?? ?????. ?? ??? ?????? ???? ?? ????? ???? ?????? ????? ??? ? ?????? ?????? ?? ?? ????. ???? ?? ???? ????? ??? ?? ????: ??? ????? ??!? ??? ???????? ????? ?? ???? ????? ??? ??: ????? ?? ?????? ??? ???????.
???? ????? ????? ????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ?? ???? ?????? ??????? ???? ? ???? ?? ???? ??????? ??? ????? ?? ????? ?? ?? ???? ???? ????. ??? ?? ?? ????? ? ?? ????? ?? ???????. ??? ????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????.
????? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ????? ?? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?????? ????? ??????. ????? ????? ???? ??? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ? ?? ???? ????? ?????? ?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ???. ??? ????? ????? ?? ?? ?? ??????. ???? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????? ??????? ???? ?? ??????? ? ??? ??? ? ??? ???? ??????? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ????? ??? ?? ?????? ??? ??????? ?????.
?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?????? ?????? ?? ?? ????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ? ????? ??. ??? ?? ???? ???? ?? ?????? ?????. ???? ??? ???. ??? ?? ???? ????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?????? ? ??????. ?? ???? ?? ????? ??? ???? ?? ??? ???? ?? ??? ????? ??? ?????? ? ??????? ? ??????? ? ???????. ?? ???? ?? ???? ??? ???? ???? ????? ????? ???????.
????? ?? ????? ?? ????? ????? ??? ?? ??????? ????. ??? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ???????.
?? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ??! ??? ?? ??? ??? ???? ? ???? ?? ?????? ????? ???????? ?? ????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ??????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??? ?? ???? ? ????? ??????? ??? ???? ?? ?????. ??? ????? ????? ??? ??? ?? ?? ?? ??? ???? ??????? ?? ????????.
???????: ?? ????? ???? ?? ???????? ???? ??? ??? ? ?? ?????? ???????? ??????? ???? ? ?? ?? ???? ??????????? ??? ?????? ?? ????? ?????? ????????? ?????? ????? ??? ??????? ? ?? ???? ?????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???????? ????????.
???? ????? ????? ????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ?? ???? ?????? ??????? ???? ? ???? ?? ???? ??????? ??? ????? ?? ????? ?? ?? ???? ???? ????. ??? ?? ?? ????? ? ?? ????? ?? ???????. ??? ????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????.
????? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ????? ?? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?????? ????? ??????. ????? ????? ???? ??? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ? ?? ???? ????? ?????? ?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ???. ??? ????? ????? ?? ?? ?? ??????. ???? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????? ??????? ???? ?? ??????? ? ??? ??? ? ??? ???? ??????? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ????? ??? ?? ?????? ??? ??????? ?????.
?? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?????? ?????? ?? ?? ????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ? ????? ??. ??? ?? ???? ???? ?? ?????? ?????. ???? ??? ???. ??? ?? ???? ????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?????? ? ??????. ?? ???? ?? ????? ??? ???? ?? ??? ???? ?? ??? ????? ??? ?????? ? ??????? ? ??????? ? ???????. ?? ???? ?? ???? ??? ???? ???? ????? ????? ???????.
????? ?? ????? ?? ????? ????? ??? ?? ??????? ????. ??? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ???????.
?? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ??! ??? ?? ??? ??? ???? ? ???? ?? ?????? ????? ???????? ?? ????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ??????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??? ?? ???? ? ????? ??????? ??? ???? ?? ?????. ??? ????? ????? ??? ??? ?? ?? ?? ??? ???? ??????? ?? ????????.
???????: ?? ????? ???? ?? ???????? ???? ??? ??? ? ?? ?????? ???????? ??????? ???? ? ?? ?? ???? ??????????? ??? ?????? ?? ????? ?????? ????????? ?????? ????? ??? ??????? ? ?? ???? ?????? ?????? ??????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???????? ????????.
April 1, 2022
??????? ??? ???? = Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayy¨¢m, Sir Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
In Spring time I love to sit in the meadow with a paramour
perfect as a Houri and goodly jar of wine, and though
I may be blamed for this, yet hold me lower
than a dog if ever I dream of Paradise.
?? ??? ???? ??? ??? ??? ????
?? ???? ??? ??? ??? ?? ?? ???
?? ??? ?? ??? ???? ??? ???? ???
?? ?? ? ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ????
????? ?????? ?????: ?? ???1963?????? ? ????? ??? ???? : ???1996??????
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??? ????? ???????
????? ?? ?? ??? ????? ???????? - ?? ????? ? ???? ?? ???? ????????
??? ????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ????? - ???????? ? ???? ?????? ???????
***
?? ??? ?? ??? ?????? ????? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ????? ????
?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? - ??? ???? ???? ??????? ????
***
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ???? ??
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ?? ????? - ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?????
***
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????
????? ?????? ????? 27/03/1400???? ???????? 10/01/1401???? ???????? ?. ???????
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
In Spring time I love to sit in the meadow with a paramour
perfect as a Houri and goodly jar of wine, and though
I may be blamed for this, yet hold me lower
than a dog if ever I dream of Paradise.
?? ??? ???? ??? ??? ??? ????
?? ???? ??? ??? ??? ?? ?? ???
?? ??? ?? ??? ???? ??? ???? ???
?? ?? ? ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ????
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??? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ? ???????? ????? ???? ??????? ????? ?? ????? ? ?????????? ??? ?????? ???? ?????? ? ????? ?? ???? ???????? ???? ????? ???? ????????? ?? ?? ???? ????? ???? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ???????? ????? ???????? ??????: ???????? ??????? ?????? ????? ????????? ??????? ????????? ???????? ??????? ?????? ?????? ? ???? ??????? ????? ????? ???? ??? ??????? ? ???????? ??? ????? ???? ?? ???? ?????? ?????? ? ????? ??????? ?????? ??? ??????? ?????? ???? ???????? ? ?????? ????? ???? ??????? ?? ?? ???1375???? ??????? ???? ???????? ???????? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ?? ????? ????????? ??? ??? ? ?????? ???? ?? ?????5000???? ?? ?????? ??? ? ???????? ?? ???? ??? ?????? ? ?? ????? ???? ????? ?????? ???
??? ????? ???????
????? ?? ?? ??? ????? ???????? - ?? ????? ? ???? ?? ???? ????????
??? ????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ????? - ???????? ? ???? ?????? ???????
***
?? ??? ?? ??? ?????? ????? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ????? ????
?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? - ??? ???? ???? ??????? ????
***
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ???? ??
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ?? ????? - ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?????
***
????? ?? ??? ? ??? ?????? ???? - ??? ???? ?? ? ?? ??? ?????? ???
????? ??? ?? ?? ??????? ? ???? - ???? ??? ??? ?? ????? ???
????
????? ?????? ????? 27/03/1400???? ???????? 10/01/1401???? ???????? ?. ???????
December 24, 2022
??????? ?? ??????
?? ???? ??? ?????? ?? ???? ??????? ?????? ?????? ?? ??? ????? ?????? ????????
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January 16, 2015
I kept thinking about the Rubaiyat last week while I was translating Zep's Happy Sex. I understand that Fitzgerald's translation is extremely non-literal, and almost amounts to a new poem - there is a nice piece by Borges discussing this unusual collaboration between two poets from different cultures and centuries. But what are you supposed to do when you translate poetry? Literal translation seems pointless. I had similar problems while trying to translate Zep's sexy French jokes. If the result wasn't sexy or funny, it seemed to me that I must have failed.
Well, I've worked with machine translation for a while, and I suddenly wondered if the theoretical framework it gives you makes it possible to explore these issues in a more precise way. Here's a Powerpoint slide showing the fundamental equation of statistical machine translation, the technique which for example powers Google Translate:
What this says is that decoding (translating) amounts to finding words (the e-best) which optimize the product of the translation model, P(f|e) and the language model, P(e). The translation model measures how likely it is that the translated words correspond to the original ones. The language model measures how plausible the translated words are per se.
When translating literature, the language model should presumably take into account the genre. If you're translating a moving epic love poem, the language model should measure the probability that a string of words is a moving epic love poem. Similarly, if you're translating a sexy joke, it should measure the probability that a string of words is a sexy joke.
The problem is that there's a tension between the translation model and the language model. If you optimize the translation model term, and get a very literal translation, you're going to be far from optimal on the language model term. Now (I'm thinking aloud here) why is the problem so acute when you're translating literature? It seems to me that the answer lies in the unusually strong constraints associated with the demands of literary text. Even requiring a text string to be a sexy joke is a strong constraint. Most literal translations, though they may be grammatical and even idiomatic, will have a low probability of being sexy jokes. By accepting a lower value for P(f|e), though, you have a better chance of improving your score for P(e). Your optimum tradeoff point is most likely going to have a lowish P(f|e), and hence be fairly non-literal.
Requiring a text string to be a moving epic love poem is an exceptionally strong constraint. The probability that a literal translation is going to meet this constraint is vanishingly small. So the optimum tradeoff point will most likely have an even lower P(f|e), and hence be even less literal.
Ah, my hands are getting tired from being waved around so much...
Well, I've worked with machine translation for a while, and I suddenly wondered if the theoretical framework it gives you makes it possible to explore these issues in a more precise way. Here's a Powerpoint slide showing the fundamental equation of statistical machine translation, the technique which for example powers Google Translate:
What this says is that decoding (translating) amounts to finding words (the e-best) which optimize the product of the translation model, P(f|e) and the language model, P(e). The translation model measures how likely it is that the translated words correspond to the original ones. The language model measures how plausible the translated words are per se.
When translating literature, the language model should presumably take into account the genre. If you're translating a moving epic love poem, the language model should measure the probability that a string of words is a moving epic love poem. Similarly, if you're translating a sexy joke, it should measure the probability that a string of words is a sexy joke.
The problem is that there's a tension between the translation model and the language model. If you optimize the translation model term, and get a very literal translation, you're going to be far from optimal on the language model term. Now (I'm thinking aloud here) why is the problem so acute when you're translating literature? It seems to me that the answer lies in the unusually strong constraints associated with the demands of literary text. Even requiring a text string to be a sexy joke is a strong constraint. Most literal translations, though they may be grammatical and even idiomatic, will have a low probability of being sexy jokes. By accepting a lower value for P(f|e), though, you have a better chance of improving your score for P(e). Your optimum tradeoff point is most likely going to have a lowish P(f|e), and hence be fairly non-literal.
Requiring a text string to be a moving epic love poem is an exceptionally strong constraint. The probability that a literal translation is going to meet this constraint is vanishingly small. So the optimum tradeoff point will most likely have an even lower P(f|e), and hence be even less literal.
Ah, my hands are getting tired from being waved around so much...
May 26, 2021
???? ????? ???? ???? ??? ??????? ????? ??????? ????? ???? ??????? ????.
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??? ?? ???? ?????? ?? ??? ???? ???? ???!
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? ??? ????? ???? ????? ????? ?? ??? ???? ????? ??? ??? ?? ?? ? ?? ?????? ???? ????? ? ?? ??? ???? ????? ?? ???? ? ?? ?? ??? ??? ??????!
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?? ?? ??? ??????? ?? ?? ??? ???? ??????? ????? ? ???? ?? ??? ?????!
???? ? ????? ? ???? ?????? ? ?? ????? ??? ?????? ?? ??????. ????? ?? ???? ????? ??? ????? ?? ?????? ???? ?? ????!
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??? ?? ???? ?????? ?? ??? ???? ???? ???!
????? ???? ???? ?????? ???? ? ?? ??? ?? ?????? ????? ???. ????? ????? ????? ? ?? ?? ??? ??????. ????? ??? ??? ??? ?? ??? ????? ?????? ? ??? ?????. ???? ????. ????? ????? ? ????? ??? ?? ??? ??????? ???? ???. ?? ? ????? ??? ??? ? ?? ???? ???? ??? ???? ?? ??? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ???? ? ??? ????? ??? ???? ??????? ?????. ???? ?????? ??? ?????. ?? ??? ???? ?????? ???? ???? ???? ?? ??.
???? ???...
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February 15, 2024
- ??? ?????? ?????? ?? ???? ???????? ???????? ??? ???? ??? ?????? ??????? ????? ?????? ?? ???? ????? ??????? ???: ?????? ???????? ???????? ?????????? ??????? ??????? ??????? ??????? ???????. (???? ?? ??? ?? ???? ?? ?? ???? ??? ???? ???? ????? ???? ???? ???? ????? ??? ???? ???!).
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March 17, 2021
A great Sufi poet, Omar Khayyam, has written in his Ruba¡¯iyat, his world-famous collection of poetry: "I am going to drink, to dance, to love. I am going to commit every kind of sin because I trust God is compassionate -- he will forgive. My sins are very small; his forgiveness is immense."
He was a famous mathematician too, renowned in his country. Omar Khayyam's book was burned in his day. Whenever a copy was found, it was burned by the priests, because this man was teaching such a dangerous idea. One of the enlightened Sufi mystics, what he is saying has immense truth in it. He does not mean that you should commit sin. Whatever you do -- if it is not right, don't do it again. If you feel it hurts somebody, don't do it again.
The songs of Omar Khayyam were translated by Western writers, but were not correctly understood. Edward Fitzgerald, who did an admirable rendering of Khayyam's songs, was not a Sufi. He took the word `wine' literally, for example. He also took the word `lover' literally, and did the same with `wineshop'. He read the Rubaiyat and tried to understand it with the help of a dictionary. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir, a Sufi saint. When he speaks of wine, he is speaking of the wine about which Kabir is speaking: ¡®And I¡¯m drunk with boundless youth¡¯.
Omar Khayyam is speaking of this too. The wineshop is the temple, the lover is the master, and the wine is none other than the wine of God. Fitzgerald made a great mistake when he translated the songs of Omar Khayyam literally, and many people in the West thought Khayyam was a drunkard and had written these songs in praise of wine. Many adaptations of the Rubaiyat were made from these translations of Fitzgerald's and were published all over the world, and so the wineshop of Omar Khayyam became world-famous. To understand a madman one must be mad, so if you wish to understand an enlightened man you will have to become enlightened yourself. The sign-language used by a dumb person can only be understood by another who is dumb. Fitzgerald did not realize this. If Omar Khayyam were to return to the world he would not be so displeased with anyone as he would be with Edward Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald made Khayyam's name famous throughout the world, but he did it in a very wrong way.
The Ruba¡¯iyat is one of the most misunderstood books in the whole world. It is understood in its translation, it is misunderstood in its spirit. The translator could not bring the spirit to it.
Ruba¡¯iyat is symbolic.
The Ruba¡¯iyat talks of wine and women and nothing else; it sings of wine and women. The translators -- and there are many -- are all wrong. They are bound to be wrong because Omar Khayyam was a Sufi, a man who knows. When he talks of the woman he is talking about God. That is the way Sufis address God: "Beloved, O my beloved." And they always use the feminine for God. Nobody else in the world, in the whole history of humanity, has addressed God as a woman. Only Sufis address God as the beloved. And the 'wine' is that which happens between the lover and the beloved, it has nothing to do with grapes. The alchemy which happens between the lover and the beloved, between the disciple and the master, between the seeker and the sought, between the worshipper and his God -the alchemy. The transmutation-that is the wine. Ruba¡¯iyat is so misunderstood¡
¡°Drink wine that is life everlasting,
The source of youthful delight;
It burns like fire, but puts an end to grief,
It¡¯s like the water of life, drink it.¡±
He was a famous mathematician too, renowned in his country. Omar Khayyam's book was burned in his day. Whenever a copy was found, it was burned by the priests, because this man was teaching such a dangerous idea. One of the enlightened Sufi mystics, what he is saying has immense truth in it. He does not mean that you should commit sin. Whatever you do -- if it is not right, don't do it again. If you feel it hurts somebody, don't do it again.
The songs of Omar Khayyam were translated by Western writers, but were not correctly understood. Edward Fitzgerald, who did an admirable rendering of Khayyam's songs, was not a Sufi. He took the word `wine' literally, for example. He also took the word `lover' literally, and did the same with `wineshop'. He read the Rubaiyat and tried to understand it with the help of a dictionary. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir, a Sufi saint. When he speaks of wine, he is speaking of the wine about which Kabir is speaking: ¡®And I¡¯m drunk with boundless youth¡¯.
Omar Khayyam is speaking of this too. The wineshop is the temple, the lover is the master, and the wine is none other than the wine of God. Fitzgerald made a great mistake when he translated the songs of Omar Khayyam literally, and many people in the West thought Khayyam was a drunkard and had written these songs in praise of wine. Many adaptations of the Rubaiyat were made from these translations of Fitzgerald's and were published all over the world, and so the wineshop of Omar Khayyam became world-famous. To understand a madman one must be mad, so if you wish to understand an enlightened man you will have to become enlightened yourself. The sign-language used by a dumb person can only be understood by another who is dumb. Fitzgerald did not realize this. If Omar Khayyam were to return to the world he would not be so displeased with anyone as he would be with Edward Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald made Khayyam's name famous throughout the world, but he did it in a very wrong way.
The Ruba¡¯iyat is one of the most misunderstood books in the whole world. It is understood in its translation, it is misunderstood in its spirit. The translator could not bring the spirit to it.
Ruba¡¯iyat is symbolic.
The Ruba¡¯iyat talks of wine and women and nothing else; it sings of wine and women. The translators -- and there are many -- are all wrong. They are bound to be wrong because Omar Khayyam was a Sufi, a man who knows. When he talks of the woman he is talking about God. That is the way Sufis address God: "Beloved, O my beloved." And they always use the feminine for God. Nobody else in the world, in the whole history of humanity, has addressed God as a woman. Only Sufis address God as the beloved. And the 'wine' is that which happens between the lover and the beloved, it has nothing to do with grapes. The alchemy which happens between the lover and the beloved, between the disciple and the master, between the seeker and the sought, between the worshipper and his God -the alchemy. The transmutation-that is the wine. Ruba¡¯iyat is so misunderstood¡
¡°Drink wine that is life everlasting,
The source of youthful delight;
It burns like fire, but puts an end to grief,
It¡¯s like the water of life, drink it.¡±
July 22, 2021
The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayy¨¢m, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E.
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
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!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
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.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
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.
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
XLIX
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?
L
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;
LI
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;
LII
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.
LIII
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?
LIV
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.
LV
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.
LVI
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.
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
LIX
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:
LX
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.
LXI
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?
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 Hell 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 pass'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 Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell 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!
LXXX
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
LXXXI
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
LXXXII
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
LXXXIV
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
LXXXVI
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXXXVII
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot--
"All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXXXVIII
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXXXIX
"Well," Murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
XC
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
...
??????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ??????? ?????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ????: ??? ????? ??? 2004??????
?????? ?????? ???? ?? ?? ????? ?? ??? ????? ? ????? ??????? ???? ?????? ???????: ??????? ???????? ???? ?????? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ? ?????? ???? ?? ?? ??? 1303???? ??????? ????? ?????? ?? ??? ???????? ????? ????? ?? ??????? ????? ? ??? ????? ?? ???? ???? ???????? ?? ?? ????? ??????? ????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? 1313???? ??????? ????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ????? ?????? ????? ???????? ?? ?????: ??????? ??? ????? ???? ?????????? ????? ???? ??? ?? ??? 1320???? ??????? ??????? ???????? ??????? ?? ??????? ?? ????? ???? ???????? ? ?????? ??? ????????? ??? ??????? ? ???????? ????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?????????????? ????? ????? ?? ?????? ???? ???? ?????? ?? ??? 1336???? ??????? ??? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ?? ????? ????????? ? ??? ????? ???? ?? ????? ?? ?????: ??????? ??? ????? ?????? ??????? ???? ????? ??? ?? ??? 1344???? ???????? ?? ????? ?? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ??????? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ????? ???????? ? ???? ????? ???? ?? ????????? ???????? ?? ??? 1385???? ??????? ??? ???? ??????? ?????? ???? ??? ???? ???????? ?????? ?? ????? ?????? ???? ???????? ?? ??? ?????
?? ?????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? ?? ?????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????????? ???? ??? ? ????? ????? ???? ? ????? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?????????? ????? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ????????? ?? ???? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ? ????? ?? ????????? ?????? ?????? ??? ????????? ????????? ?????? 1342???? ???? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ? ??????? ?? ???? ? ??????? ??????? ?????????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ???? ? ???? ??? ??????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ???? ????? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ? ??? ??? ? ????? ?????? ?? ??? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ???????? ? ?????? ???????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ?????? ? ??? ??? ???????
????? ?? ?? ??? ????? ???????? - ?? ????? ? ???? ?? ???? ???????
??? ????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ????? - ???????? ? ???? ?????? ???????
***
?? ??? ?? ??? ?????? ????? - ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ????? ????
?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ??? ?? ?? ???? - ??? ???? ???? ??????? ????
***
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? - ?? ??? ??? ???? ????? ???? ??
??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??????? - ???? ?? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?????
***
????? ?? ??? ? ???? ?????? ???? - ??? ????? ?? ?? ?? ???? ?????? ???
????? ???? ?? ?? ??????? ? ???? - ???? ???? ??? ?? ????? ???
***
????? ?????? ????? 30/04/1400???? ???????? ?. ???????
Written 1120 A.C.E.
Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
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!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
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.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
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.
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
XLIX
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?
L
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;
LI
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;
LII
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.
LIII
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?
LIV
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.
LV
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.
LVI
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.
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
LIX
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:
LX
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.
LXI
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?
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 Hell 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 pass'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 Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell 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!
LXXX
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
LXXXI
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
LXXXII
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
LXXXIII
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
LXXXIV
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
LXXXV
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
LXXXVI
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXXXVII
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot--
"All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXXXVIII
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXXXIX
"Well," Murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
XC
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
...
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?????? ?????? ???? ?? ?? ????? ?? ??? ????? ? ????? ??????? ???? ?????? ???????: ??????? ???????? ???? ?????? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ? ?????? ???? ?? ?? ??? 1303???? ??????? ????? ?????? ?? ??? ???????? ????? ????? ?? ??????? ????? ? ??? ????? ?? ???? ???? ???????? ?? ?? ????? ??????? ????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? 1313???? ??????? ????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ????? ?????? ????? ???????? ?? ?????: ??????? ??? ????? ???? ?????????? ????? ???? ??? ?? ??? 1320???? ??????? ??????? ???????? ??????? ?? ??????? ?? ????? ???? ???????? ? ?????? ??? ????????? ??? ??????? ? ???????? ????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ?? ???? ?????????????? ????? ????? ?? ?????? ???? ???? ?????? ?? ??? 1336???? ??????? ??? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ?? ?? ???????? ????? ?? ?? ????? ????????? ? ??? ????? ???? ?? ????? ?? ?????: ??????? ??? ????? ?????? ??????? ???? ????? ??? ?? ??? 1344???? ???????? ?? ????? ?? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ??????? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ????? ???????? ? ???? ????? ???? ?? ????????? ???????? ?? ??? 1385???? ??????? ??? ???? ??????? ?????? ???? ??? ???? ???????? ?????? ?? ????? ?????? ???? ???????? ?? ??? ?????
?? ?????? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ???? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? ?? ?????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????????? ???? ??? ? ????? ????? ???? ? ????? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??? ??? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?????????? ????? ?????? ???? ? ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ????????? ?? ???? ?????? ???? ?? ???? ? ????? ?? ????????? ?????? ?????? ??? ????????? ????????? ?????? 1342???? ???? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ? ??????? ?? ???? ? ??????? ??????? ?????????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ?? ???????? ????? ???? ? ???? ??? ??????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ???? ????? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ? ??? ??? ? ????? ?????? ?? ??? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ??? ???????? ? ?????? ???????? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ?????? ? ??? ??? ???????
????? ?? ?? ??? ????? ???????? - ?? ????? ? ???? ?? ???? ???????
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????? ?????? ????? 30/04/1400???? ???????? ?. ???????
October 27, 2020
??????? ???? = The ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù, Omar Khayy¨¢m
The ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m is the title that Edward FitzGerald gave to his translation of a selection of poems, originally written in Persian and numbering about a thousand, attributed to Omar Khayy¨¢m (1048¨C1131), a Persian poet, mathematician and astronomer. A Ruba'i is a two-line stanza with two parts (or hemstitch) per line, hence the word rub¨¢iy¨¢t (derived from the Arabic language root for "Four"), meaning "Quatrains".
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
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!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
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.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
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.
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
XLIX
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?
L
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;
LI
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;
LII
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.
LIII
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?
LIV
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.
LV
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.
LVI
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.
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
LIX
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:
LX
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.
LXI
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?
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 Hell 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 pass'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 Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell 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.
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????? ?? ?? ??? ????? ???????? - ?? ????? ? ???? ?? ???? ???????
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The ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m is the title that Edward FitzGerald gave to his translation of a selection of poems, originally written in Persian and numbering about a thousand, attributed to Omar Khayy¨¢m (1048¨C1131), a Persian poet, mathematician and astronomer. A Ruba'i is a two-line stanza with two parts (or hemstitch) per line, hence the word rub¨¢iy¨¢t (derived from the Arabic language root for "Four"), meaning "Quatrains".
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
III
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."
IV
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.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishapur 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.
IX
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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
XI
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!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV
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.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV
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!
XXV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
XXVIII
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXIV
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
XXXV
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
XXXVI
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
XXXVII
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVIII
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
XXXIX
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
XL
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
XLI
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.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
XLIII
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
XLIV
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
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.
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
XLIX
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?
L
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;
LI
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;
LII
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.
LIII
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?
LIV
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.
LV
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.
LVI
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.
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
LIX
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:
LX
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.
LXI
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?
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 Hell 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 pass'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 Hell:"
LXVII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell 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.
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????? ?????? ????? 05/08/1399???? ???????? ?. ???????
Read
August 20, 2020It is a flash from the stage of non-belief to faith,
There is no more than a syllable between doubt and certainty:
Prize this precious moment dearly,
It is our life's only fruit.
I had a palm size edition of Edward Fitzgerald's translation. He changed his translation over the years and there are big differences between some of the different published editions. Reading this, the Avery translation, was a shock because none of the verses were recognisable. At first I found myself like hankering after a wayward translation because it had its own strange music.
Nobody has known anything better than sparkling wine
Since the morning star and the moon graced the sky:
Wine-sellers astonish me because
What can they buy better than what they sell?
I'm not sure if Fitzgerald knew Persian, but in any case Avery's intention was to write a literal translation. Avery in the introduction is generous towards Fitzgerald's translation, which is well known and much loved. When it comes to translating poetry what the ill-tempered might call inaccuracy can be creativity, a reinvention of the original in an alien language which has its own foreign rhythm.
The year's caravan goes by swiftly,
Seize the cheerful moment:
Why sorrow, boy, over tomorrow's grief for friends?
Bring out the cup - the night passes.
Rereading what struck me was how repetitive many of the verses were. Some seem like variations of each other and the effect of reading them a little similar to reading Pascal's . The themes are the impermanence of life, the unknowability of the future and afterlife, the enjoyment of the present moment and Dust Thou Art, and Unto Dust Shalt Thou Return. A pie chart illustrating Khayyam's poetic impulses would not need many slices.
How long shall I grieve for what I have or have not,
Over whether to pass my life in pleasure?
Fill the wine-bowl - it is not certain
That I shall breathe out again the breath I now draw.
Khayyam was a mathematician, astrologer and philosopher. The attribution of verses to his name was made only after his death. Some were also attributed to other writers and it seems that only one four line verse can be reliably thought to have actually been composed by Khayyam (and this because tells us that some of the survivors of the sack of Baghdad recited it in his history of the Mongol conquests). I suppose our ignorance over the authorship only proves the poet's point about the impermanence of life.
These few odd days of life have passed
Like water down the brook, wind across the desert;
There are two days I have never been plagued with regret for,
Yesterday that has gone, tomorrow that will come.
December 23, 2024
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June 7, 2010
In 1942, when my father was in the South Pacific, he asked for only one thing for Christmas...this book of poetry. My mother sent it to him with an inscription in the frontispiece which spoke wistfully of days to come. Later, he sent her a photo of him, reading this book, leaning back on a palm tree, with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread on the cloth beside him...on the back of the photo, he wrote, "...all I'm missing is thou..."
Obviously, this book is a family treasure, and I cannot read it without remembering my parent's great love affair.
"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."
"Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow."
Obviously, this book is a family treasure, and I cannot read it without remembering my parent's great love affair.
"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."
"Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
And Wilderness is Paradise enow."
April 26, 2016
I feel a bit awkward reviewing a book this short, so I¡¯ll keep my review short as well. There are some very fine verses here, especially good to read before a night of drunken foolery. Although FitzGerald¡¯s translation is known for being somewhat inaccurate, I wouldn¡¯t even consider trading it for a more scrupulous edition. Instead, why not view the poems as an artistic collaboration between two great poets, across time and space?
When small-minded tin-eared scholars
Take a look at his verse and holler:
"Why! what grave and fatal inaccuracies!"
Resist the urge to grab them by the collar
When pencil-pushing professors sneer:
¡°FitzGerald¡¯s version does not adhere
To the original Persian manuscript here!¡±
Pat them on the back and have another beer
October 22, 2021
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July 2, 2023
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May 23, 2017
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March 12, 2018
The Ruba'iyat of Omar Khayyam, Omar Khayy¨¢m, Edward FitzGerald (Translator)
Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
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Written 1120 A.C.E. Omar Khayyam was born at Naishapur in Khorassan in the latter half of Eleventh Century, and died within the First Quarter of Twelfth Century.
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July 29, 2023
¸é³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¾±²â¨¡³Ù is simply the plural for °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨©, a Persian term referring to a quatrain or four-line poem. Therefore there is no need to be put off by the title ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m. Think of the title as Quatrains of Omar Khayy¨¢m, or as Four-Line Poems of Omar Khayy¨¢m, if that will be more comfortable to you. But don¡¯t miss out on reading these little poems, which hold their own unique power to delight, and additionally may be among the most influential and important poems ever written.
The poems¡¯ author, Omar Khayy¨¢m (1048-1131), is one of those polymaths who did everything well and achieved in every field of endeavour. He is known today as ¡°The Astronomer-Poet of Persia,¡± and he excelled not only as an astronomer-poet, but also as mathematician and philosopher. Conducting his work near court, at the time when the Kara-Khanid Khanate and the Seljuq dynasty held power, Omar Khayy¨¢m lived amidst the turbulent times of the First Crusade; but one would not know any of that from reading these poems, all of which resound with a full-throated appreciation of life, as when Omar Khayy¨¢m calls upon the reader of °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© VII to
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 ¨C and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
The reader who is new to the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù certainly gets a strong sense of the depth and extent of the poems¡¯ influence by the time he or she arrives at °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XI:
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse ¨C and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness ¨C
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
This sentiment ¨C usually shortened to ¡°a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou¡± ¨C has no doubt been spoken at many picnics down the years, all over North America and Western Europe. I¡¯m sure that the same idea has been expressed on countless Saint Valentine¡¯s Day greeting cards. Yet how many of those who thus invoke this archetype know that they have a 12th-century Persian poet to thank for the manner in which they thus invoked the spirit of Romance? Not many, I think.`
The brevity and uncertainty of life is a major theme of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù, as when Omar Khayy¨¢m encourages the reader to seize the day:
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 ¨C sans End!
Here, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXIII, Omar Khayy¨¢m sets forth his ideas in a manner that invites comparison with Genesis 3:19 ¨C ¡°for dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.¡±
It is a pleasant thing to travel with Omar Khayy¨¢m, who even steps into his own poetry for a moment to invite the reader to travel with him, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXVI:
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Omar Khayy¨¢m, so well-educated and brilliant himself, sets at naught the self-proclaimed wisdom of ¡°Doctor and Saint,¡± of ¡°Saints and Sages,¡± culminating in one unforgettable image from °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXIV, addressed to people who focus on either today or tomorrow:
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
¡°Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There.¡±
I appreciated Omar Khayy¨¢m¡¯s invocation, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXXI, of the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, according to which the Earth was at the center of the Universe, with the sun, moon, and the five then-known planets all revolving in great concentric spheres around the Earth. Thus Omar Khayy¨¢m describes his journey up through the Ptolemaic spheres, in search of an answer to the insoluble mysteries of life:
Up from Earth¡¯s Centre through the seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sat,
And many Knots unravelled by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
And °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XLVI seemed to evoke the Allegory of the Cave from Plato¡¯s Republic, where prisoners, imprisoned in a cave for all their lives, look at shadows on the back wall of the cave and believe they are seeing reality:
For in and out, above, about, below,
¡¯Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-Show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
Another of the most powerful metaphors in the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù comes when Omar Khayy¨¢m, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XLVIX, depicts human beings as little more than game-pieces in the hands of an infinitely more powerful force:
¡¯Tis all a Chequerboard of Nights and Days
Where Destiny, with Men for Pieces, plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Here, I found myself thinking of images from the Ray Harryhausen movie Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Throughout the film, Zeus and Hera treat Jason of Thessaly¡¯s quest for the Golden Fleece as a game being played on a board, with the bronze giant Talos and the Clashing Rocks and the sea-god Triton as pieces to be deployed as needed for different turns in the game. No doubt many of us, at many different points in our lives, have felt like pawns in some such game.
The history of the Western publication of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù is itself just as compelling and intriguing as the poems themselves. In 1859, the English poet Edward FitzGerald published a translation of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m; and that translation, initially a failure in financial terms, eventually took off and became a literary and cultural phenomenon. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Ruskin, and other writers and artists of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, with their embrace of colour and spontaneity and their hostility to mannerism, seized upon the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù as a sort of cultural manifesto ¨C and its ¡°exotic¡± elements contributed to its allure amidst the Orientalism that was such a strong feature of late 19th-century British culture.
Thus the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù became central to the Western literary conversation. Mark Twain wrote a parody of it in 1898. And when R.M.S. Titanic sank in 1912, with an expensive, jewel-encrusted copy of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù on board, the accumulated lore surrounding the poem only grew.
It has influenced literary work by Isaac Asimov, Jorge Luis Borges, Allen Drury, Daphne du Maurier, Christopher Hitchens, James Michener, Eugene O¡¯Neill, Se¨¢n O¡¯Casey, O. Henry, Saki, and Rex Stout. There are references to it in all sorts of movies: The Picture of Dorian Grey (1945), Duel in the Sun (1946), Back to the Future (1985), 12 Monkeys (1995). Even Rocky and Bullwinkle, the I Dream of Jeannie television show, and Charles Schulz¡¯s Peanuts comic strip have referenced the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù.
And another of the most famous lines from the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù ¨C one that many people may not originally identify with this book of poetry ¨C comes when Omar Khayy¨¢m writes in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© LI that ¡°The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,/Moves on¡±.
This °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© may draw upon Chapter 5 of the Book of Daniel, when the wicked Babylonian crown prince Belshazzar, contemptuously drinking from golden cups taken from the Temple of Jerusalem, witnesses unmistakable evidence of divine disapproval of his actions: ¡°In the same hour came forth fingers of a man¡¯s hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the king¡¯s palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote¡± (Daniel 5:5).
Whatever the passage¡¯s origins, it fits right in with Omar Khayy¨¢m¡¯s thematic emphasis on the brevity of life; but this line, all by itself, has taken on a life of its own. Agatha Christie gave a 1942 detective novel the title The Moving Finger. The Hollies, the British rock band, made Moving Finger the U.S. title of their 1970 album. Stephen King published his short story ¡°The Moving Finger¡± in 1990.
And, as a scholar at the University of Leiden has pointed out, the moving-finger image, when combined with the rest of the quatrain ¨C ¡°nor all thy Piety nor Wit/Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,/Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it¡± ¨C has been used by politicians to emphasize the idea that actions have consequences that cannot be revoked. Martin Luther King Jr. invoked the quatrain in a 1967 speech setting forth the shameful U.S. record in the Vietnam War and calling upon Americans to speak out openly in acknowledgement of the war¡¯s human cost. And then-U.S. President Bill Clinton quoted the line in 1998 to emphasize his awareness that the Monica Lewinsky scandal would always be part of his legacy.
All in all, the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù are just as challenging now as they were in the time of their publication. The theocrats who rule over contemporary Iran would probably not appreciate this great Persian¡¯s repeated references to the joys of wine ¨C even if one can make a good argument that the wine references are meant metaphorically, as an allusion to the idea of enjoying all the good things of life. Nor, I think, would they appreciate Omar Khayy¨¢m¡¯s forthright statement that ¡°I myself am Heaven and Hell.¡± But be that as it may, the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù, many centuries after their composition, still give the reader much food for thought, expressed in quatrains as brief as they are evocative.
The poems¡¯ author, Omar Khayy¨¢m (1048-1131), is one of those polymaths who did everything well and achieved in every field of endeavour. He is known today as ¡°The Astronomer-Poet of Persia,¡± and he excelled not only as an astronomer-poet, but also as mathematician and philosopher. Conducting his work near court, at the time when the Kara-Khanid Khanate and the Seljuq dynasty held power, Omar Khayy¨¢m lived amidst the turbulent times of the First Crusade; but one would not know any of that from reading these poems, all of which resound with a full-throated appreciation of life, as when Omar Khayy¨¢m calls upon the reader of °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© VII to
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 ¨C and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
The reader who is new to the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù certainly gets a strong sense of the depth and extent of the poems¡¯ influence by the time he or she arrives at °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XI:
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse ¨C and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness ¨C
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
This sentiment ¨C usually shortened to ¡°a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou¡± ¨C has no doubt been spoken at many picnics down the years, all over North America and Western Europe. I¡¯m sure that the same idea has been expressed on countless Saint Valentine¡¯s Day greeting cards. Yet how many of those who thus invoke this archetype know that they have a 12th-century Persian poet to thank for the manner in which they thus invoked the spirit of Romance? Not many, I think.`
The brevity and uncertainty of life is a major theme of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù, as when Omar Khayy¨¢m encourages the reader to seize the day:
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 ¨C sans End!
Here, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXIII, Omar Khayy¨¢m sets forth his ideas in a manner that invites comparison with Genesis 3:19 ¨C ¡°for dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.¡±
It is a pleasant thing to travel with Omar Khayy¨¢m, who even steps into his own poetry for a moment to invite the reader to travel with him, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXVI:
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Omar Khayy¨¢m, so well-educated and brilliant himself, sets at naught the self-proclaimed wisdom of ¡°Doctor and Saint,¡± of ¡°Saints and Sages,¡± culminating in one unforgettable image from °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXIV, addressed to people who focus on either today or tomorrow:
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
¡°Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There.¡±
I appreciated Omar Khayy¨¢m¡¯s invocation, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XXXI, of the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, according to which the Earth was at the center of the Universe, with the sun, moon, and the five then-known planets all revolving in great concentric spheres around the Earth. Thus Omar Khayy¨¢m describes his journey up through the Ptolemaic spheres, in search of an answer to the insoluble mysteries of life:
Up from Earth¡¯s Centre through the seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sat,
And many Knots unravelled by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
And °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XLVI seemed to evoke the Allegory of the Cave from Plato¡¯s Republic, where prisoners, imprisoned in a cave for all their lives, look at shadows on the back wall of the cave and believe they are seeing reality:
For in and out, above, about, below,
¡¯Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-Show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
Another of the most powerful metaphors in the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù comes when Omar Khayy¨¢m, in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© XLVIX, depicts human beings as little more than game-pieces in the hands of an infinitely more powerful force:
¡¯Tis all a Chequerboard of Nights and Days
Where Destiny, with Men for Pieces, plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Here, I found myself thinking of images from the Ray Harryhausen movie Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Throughout the film, Zeus and Hera treat Jason of Thessaly¡¯s quest for the Golden Fleece as a game being played on a board, with the bronze giant Talos and the Clashing Rocks and the sea-god Triton as pieces to be deployed as needed for different turns in the game. No doubt many of us, at many different points in our lives, have felt like pawns in some such game.
The history of the Western publication of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù is itself just as compelling and intriguing as the poems themselves. In 1859, the English poet Edward FitzGerald published a translation of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù of Omar Khayy¨¢m; and that translation, initially a failure in financial terms, eventually took off and became a literary and cultural phenomenon. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Ruskin, and other writers and artists of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, with their embrace of colour and spontaneity and their hostility to mannerism, seized upon the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù as a sort of cultural manifesto ¨C and its ¡°exotic¡± elements contributed to its allure amidst the Orientalism that was such a strong feature of late 19th-century British culture.
Thus the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù became central to the Western literary conversation. Mark Twain wrote a parody of it in 1898. And when R.M.S. Titanic sank in 1912, with an expensive, jewel-encrusted copy of the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù on board, the accumulated lore surrounding the poem only grew.
It has influenced literary work by Isaac Asimov, Jorge Luis Borges, Allen Drury, Daphne du Maurier, Christopher Hitchens, James Michener, Eugene O¡¯Neill, Se¨¢n O¡¯Casey, O. Henry, Saki, and Rex Stout. There are references to it in all sorts of movies: The Picture of Dorian Grey (1945), Duel in the Sun (1946), Back to the Future (1985), 12 Monkeys (1995). Even Rocky and Bullwinkle, the I Dream of Jeannie television show, and Charles Schulz¡¯s Peanuts comic strip have referenced the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù.
And another of the most famous lines from the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù ¨C one that many people may not originally identify with this book of poetry ¨C comes when Omar Khayy¨¢m writes in °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© LI that ¡°The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,/Moves on¡±.
This °ù³Ü²ú¨¡¡®¨© may draw upon Chapter 5 of the Book of Daniel, when the wicked Babylonian crown prince Belshazzar, contemptuously drinking from golden cups taken from the Temple of Jerusalem, witnesses unmistakable evidence of divine disapproval of his actions: ¡°In the same hour came forth fingers of a man¡¯s hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the king¡¯s palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote¡± (Daniel 5:5).
Whatever the passage¡¯s origins, it fits right in with Omar Khayy¨¢m¡¯s thematic emphasis on the brevity of life; but this line, all by itself, has taken on a life of its own. Agatha Christie gave a 1942 detective novel the title The Moving Finger. The Hollies, the British rock band, made Moving Finger the U.S. title of their 1970 album. Stephen King published his short story ¡°The Moving Finger¡± in 1990.
And, as a scholar at the University of Leiden has pointed out, the moving-finger image, when combined with the rest of the quatrain ¨C ¡°nor all thy Piety nor Wit/Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,/Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it¡± ¨C has been used by politicians to emphasize the idea that actions have consequences that cannot be revoked. Martin Luther King Jr. invoked the quatrain in a 1967 speech setting forth the shameful U.S. record in the Vietnam War and calling upon Americans to speak out openly in acknowledgement of the war¡¯s human cost. And then-U.S. President Bill Clinton quoted the line in 1998 to emphasize his awareness that the Monica Lewinsky scandal would always be part of his legacy.
All in all, the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù are just as challenging now as they were in the time of their publication. The theocrats who rule over contemporary Iran would probably not appreciate this great Persian¡¯s repeated references to the joys of wine ¨C even if one can make a good argument that the wine references are meant metaphorically, as an allusion to the idea of enjoying all the good things of life. Nor, I think, would they appreciate Omar Khayy¨¢m¡¯s forthright statement that ¡°I myself am Heaven and Hell.¡± But be that as it may, the ¸é³Ü²ú¨¢¾±²â¨¢³Ù, many centuries after their composition, still give the reader much food for thought, expressed in quatrains as brief as they are evocative.
September 5, 2020
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December 8, 2013
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May 4, 2015
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? ?? ??? ??????? ????? ???? ?????? ??? ?? ??? ???? ????? ?????? ??????? .. ? ???? ???? ?? ?????? ? ?????? ????? ? ?? ???? ???? ????? ? ? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ??? .. ???? ?? ??? ???? ????? ??????? ?? ???? ? ??????? ????? ?? ? ?? ?? ????? .. ? ???? ????? ? ????? ???? ????? .. ??? ??? ??? ?? ???? ??? ??? ? ??? ????? ???? ???? ? ???? ?? ????? ? ?????? ????? ????? ? ?????? ?? ????? ? ????? ??? .. !!
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April 10, 2021
A big civilization is going to be extinct if they no longer use their own language for writing in Arabic had been highly suggested!...
Now it's high time that an autonomous Persian government is established to revitalise the fading culture of the past. In Rubaiyat, there's a high sense of nostalgia towards old Persian settings with all its mythological kings as Jamshid and Keikhosru. Compared to his contemporaries creating hypocritical literature; he unveils the truth. The sorry state is that in his contemporary poets you'll find worthless eulogies miserably written in praise of authorities whereas Omar Khayyam is a daring man who depicts a real mistress, he talks about being and time, a lost identity where he questions death, doomsday, and orthodox Muslims. He is certainly the odd one out! ,...It's clear that the mistress of Rubaiyat is a real woman and not an imaginary character or probably a man as it was very common at that very time. Mysticism for centuries has suggested a range of vocabulary which is repetitive, addictive, and cliche whereas the choice of vocabulary in Khayyam is vigorous and real. His question of death is the most common question of the human being through time and death and rebirth archetype is the main theme of Rubaiyat.
That's a pity that he lived anonymously as a poet although his work has been recognised and always celebrated after his death.
Now it's high time that an autonomous Persian government is established to revitalise the fading culture of the past. In Rubaiyat, there's a high sense of nostalgia towards old Persian settings with all its mythological kings as Jamshid and Keikhosru. Compared to his contemporaries creating hypocritical literature; he unveils the truth. The sorry state is that in his contemporary poets you'll find worthless eulogies miserably written in praise of authorities whereas Omar Khayyam is a daring man who depicts a real mistress, he talks about being and time, a lost identity where he questions death, doomsday, and orthodox Muslims. He is certainly the odd one out! ,...It's clear that the mistress of Rubaiyat is a real woman and not an imaginary character or probably a man as it was very common at that very time. Mysticism for centuries has suggested a range of vocabulary which is repetitive, addictive, and cliche whereas the choice of vocabulary in Khayyam is vigorous and real. His question of death is the most common question of the human being through time and death and rebirth archetype is the main theme of Rubaiyat.
That's a pity that he lived anonymously as a poet although his work has been recognised and always celebrated after his death.
June 5, 2020
This book was owned by my late uncle, passed on to my late brother and passed on to me. Published in 1900, it is a treasure in our family and I have read it too many times to count. But that was before I became a GR member....so it will show up as my first read. I picked it up yesterday and read it one more time and reacted to it as I did the first time. Fascinated and amazed. It is such a joy.
July 3, 2014
????? ??? ????? ??? ???? ?????? ????? ?? ? ??? ?????? ???? ?????? ????
December 25, 2015
If you were ever to compile the different odes to alcohol (there are likely to be very many in different languages and dialects, recited in different stages of inebriation), then this would have to rank right at the very top. The beauty and wonder with which Omar Khayyam has constructed his poem is a joy to behold. The comparisons stun you, for you'd have never seen it that way before. You almost get the feeling that you're sitting in one of those taverns in Arabia, that we so often see in movies and cartoons, and every gust of wind brings in a little sand and a bit of Khayyam's poetry with it.
I can only imagine how must it feel to read this poem in its original form, which I hope to do some day, if even the translation is able to sweep you off your feet.
For instance, this:
The Grape(wine) that can with Logic
absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects
confute :
The subtle Alchemist that in a
Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
Wow, just fucking wow. I feel a little guilty of trivializing a poem of this stature which has so many layers of meaning, stacked one on top of the other, into an ode to drinking. But then the sense you get from the many metaphysical meanings of this poem is to be drunk on life, or atleast go about with a sense of wonder and that stupid smile that is so often a characteristic of drunkards. For,
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night
and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his
Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went
his way.
I can only imagine how must it feel to read this poem in its original form, which I hope to do some day, if even the translation is able to sweep you off your feet.
For instance, this:
The Grape(wine) that can with Logic
absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects
confute :
The subtle Alchemist that in a
Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
Wow, just fucking wow. I feel a little guilty of trivializing a poem of this stature which has so many layers of meaning, stacked one on top of the other, into an ode to drinking. But then the sense you get from the many metaphysical meanings of this poem is to be drunk on life, or atleast go about with a sense of wonder and that stupid smile that is so often a characteristic of drunkards. For,
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night
and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his
Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went
his way.
November 30, 2024
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August 14, 2021
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April 18, 2020
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