January 15 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
“The Moving Finger Writes”
Omar Khayyam laughed and enjoyed the good things of life. His “Rubaiyat,” the most popular philosophic poem, is the best of all books to dip into for an alluring thought.
- “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” first published Jan. 15, 1859.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Omar Khayyam
The reading starts at the head of the poem, “EDWARD FITZGERALD … RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM OF NAISHAPUR”, on page 943.
EDWARD FITZGERALD
[1809–1883]
RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM OF NAISHAPUR
Second Edition
I
WAKE! For the Sun behind yon Eastern heightHas chased the Session of the Stars from Night;And to the field of Heav’n ascending, strikesThe Sultán’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 lags the drowsy Worshipper outside?”
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe 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 BoughPuts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,And Jamshýd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows;But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine,And many a Garden by the Water blows.
VI
And David’s lips are lockt; but in divineHigh-piping Péhlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!Red Wine!”—the Nightingale cries to the RoseThat sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishápúr 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
Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?And this first Summer month that brings the RoseShall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to doWith Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?Let Rustum cry “To Battle!” as he likes,Or Hátim Tai “To supper!”—heed not you.
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strownThat just divides the desert from the sown,Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne!
XII
Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough,A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness—Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and someSigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;Ah, take the Cash, and let the Promise go,Nor heed the music of a distant Drum!
XIV
Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spinThe Thread of present Life away to win—What? for ourselves, who know not if we shallBreathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!
XV
Look to the blowing Rose about us—“Lo,Laughing,” she says, “into the world I blow,At once the silken tassel of my PurseTear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.”
XVI
For those who husbanded the Golden grain,And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’dAs, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVII
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts uponTurns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face,Lighting a little hour or two—was gone.
XVIII
Think, in this batter’d CaravanseraiWhose Portals are alternate Night and Day,How Sultán after Sultán with his PompAbode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XIX
They say the Lion and the Lizard keepThe Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild AssStamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XX
The Palace that to Heav’n his pillars threw,And Kings the forehead on his threshold drew—I saw the solitary Ringdove there,And “Coo, coo, coo,” she cried; and “Coo, coo, coo.”
XXI
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clearsTo-DAY of past Regret and Future Fears:To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the bestThat from his Vintage rolling Time has 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 RoomThey left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of EarthDescend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
XXIV
I sometimes think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XXV
And this delightful Herb whose living GreenFledges the River’s Lip on which we lean—Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knowsFrom what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXVI
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lieSans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
XXVII
Alike for those who for To-DAY prepare,And those that after some To-MORROW stare,A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries,“Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!”
XXVIII
Another Voice, when I am sleeping, cries,“The Flower should open with the Morning skies.”And a retreating Whisper, as I wake—“The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.”
XXIX
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’dOf the Two Worlds so learnedly are thrustLike foolish Prophets forth; their Words to ScornAre scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXX
Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great argumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same door as in I went.
XXXI
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with my 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.”
XXXII
Into this Universe, and Why not knowingNor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
XXXIII
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!Ah, contrite Heav’n endowed us with the VineTo drug the memory of that insolence!
XXXIV
Up from Earth’s Centre through the Seventh GateI rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;And many Knots unravel’d by the Road;But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXV
There was the Door to which I found no Key:There was the Veil through which I could not see:Some little talk awhile of ME and THEEThere was—and then no more of THEE and ME.
XXXVI
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mournIn flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;Nor Heaven, with those eternal Signs reveal’dAnd hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
XXXVII
Then of the THEE IN ME who works behindThe Veil of Universe I cried to findA Lamp to guide me through the Darkness; andSomething then said—“An Understanding blind.”
XXXVIII
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen UrnI lean’d, the secret Well of Life to learn:And Lip to Lip it murmur’d—“While you live,Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return.”
XXXIX
I think the Vessel, that with fugitiveArticulation answer’d, once did live,And drink; and that impassive Lip I kiss’d,How many Kisses might it take—and give!
XL
For I remember stopping by the wayTo watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:And with its all-obliterated TongueIt murmur’d—“Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”
XLI
For has not such a Story from of OldDown Man’s successive generations roll’dOf such a clod of saturated EarthCast by the Maker into Human mould?
XLII
And not a drop that from our Cups we throwOn the parcht herbage, but may steal belowTo quench the fire of Anguish in some EyeThere hidden—far beneath, and long ago.
XLIII
As then the Tulip for her wonted supOf Heavenly Vintage lifts her chalice up,Do you, twin offspring of the soil, till Heav’nTo Earth invert you like an empty Cup.
XLIV
Do you, within your little hour of Grace,The waving Cypress in your Arms enlace,Before the Mother back into her armsFold, and dissolve you in a last embrace.
XLV
And if the Cup you drink, the Lip you press,End in what All begins and ends in—Yes;Imagine then you are what heretoforeYou were—hereafter you shall not be less.
XLVI
So when at last the Angel of the DrinkOf Darkness finds you by the river-brink,And, proffering his Cup, invites your SoulForth to your Lips to quaff it—do not shrink.
XLVII
And fear not lest Existence closing yourAccount, should lose, or know the type no more;The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour’dMillions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVIII
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 heedsAs much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.
XLIX
One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—The Stars are setting, and the CaravanDraws to the Dawn of Nothing—Oh make haste.
L
Would you that spangle of Existence spendAbout THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend!A Hair, they say, divides the False and True—And upon what, prithee, does Life depend?
LI
A Hair, they say, 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;
LII
Whose secret Presence, through Creation’s veinsRunning, Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; andThey change and perish all—but He remains;
LIII
A moment guess’d—then back behind the FoldImmerst of Darkness round the Drama roll’dWhich, for the Pastime of Eternity,He does Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIV
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floorOf Earth, and up to Heav’n’s unopening Door,You gaze To-DAY, while You are You—how thenTo-MORROW, You when shall be You no more?
LV
Oh, plagued no more with Human or Divine,To-morrow’s tangle to itself resign,And lose your fingers in the tresses ofThe Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
LVI
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuitOf This and That endeavour and dispute;Better be merry with the fruitful GrapeThan sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
LVII
You know, my Friends, how bravely in my HouseFor a new Marriage I did make Carouse;Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
LVIII
For “Is” and “IS-NOT” though with Rule and LineAnd “UP-AND-DOWN” by Logic I define,Of all that one should care to fathom, IWas never deep in anything but—Wine.
LIX
Ah, but my Computations, People say,Have squared the Year to human compass, eh?If so, by striking from the CalendarUnborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LX
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,Came shining through the Dusk an Angel ShapeBearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; andHe bid me taste of it; and ’twas—the Grape!
LXI
The Grape that can with Logic absoluteThe Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:The sovereign Alchemist that in a triceLife’s leaden metal into Gold transmute:
LXII
The mighty Mahmúd, Allah-breathing Lord,That all the misbelieving and black HordeOf Fears and Sorrows that infest the SoulScatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
LXIII
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dareBlaspheme 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?
LXIV
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,When the frail Cup is crumbled into Dust!
LXV
If but the Vine and Love-abjuring BandAre in the Prophet’s Paradise to stand,Alack, I doubt the Prophet’s ParadiseWere empty as the hollow of one’s Hand.
LXVI
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 is blown for ever dies.
LXVII
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads whoBefore us pass’d the door of Darkness through,Not one returns to tell us of the Road,Which to discover we must travel too.
LXVIII
The Revelations of Devout and Learn’dWho rose before us, and as Prophets burn’d,Are all but Stories, which, awoke from SleepThey told their fellows, and to Sleep return’d.
LXIX
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,Is’t not a Shame—is’t not a Shame for himSo long in this Clay Suburb to abide?
LXX
But that is but a Tent wherein may restA Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;The Sultán rises, and the dark FerráshStrikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
LXXI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,Some letter of that After-life to spell:And after many days my Soul return’d,And said, “Behold, Myself am Heav’n and Hell:”
LXXII
Heav’n but the Vision of fulfill’d Desire,And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
LXXIII
We are no other than a moving rowOf visionary Shapes that come and goRound with this Sun-illnmin’d Lantern heldIn Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXXIV
Impotent Pieces of the Game He playsUpon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXXV
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;And He that toss’d you down into the Field,He knows about it all—HE knows—HE knows!
Volume 41, pages 943–953 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for January 15 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 26. There the assignment reads “Vol. 41, pp. 943–953.” Read it in the guide.