OMAR KHAYYAM.
KING of the wise who, long ago,Your tents built in the Persian sand,Let me your sweet contentment know,Here in my vigorous Western land.Some day, when I shall stand besideThe grave where you have lain so long—At Nishapur your body died,But your soul lives in tender song—I’ll pour upon your tomb the wineSome Western grape has given me;I’ll speak some verse, some flowing lineBorn here, beyond the Western sea.And may the time be early nightWhen torches in the desert glow,And in dim tents appears a light,While sounds the camel’s moaning, low.Then I would be at Nishapur,To stand in reverent pause and beOne happy hour a worshiper,Your grave a Mecca made for me.Oh, my beloved, I shall tasteThe grape’s blood, as your songs have said,And pour it on the desert’s waste,A tribute to the ghostly deadWhose spirits hover there, and planStrange journeys that can never end,But, in a ghostly caravan,For ages through the past extend.O, Muezzin, from the Tower of Night,Look you toward the tomb of himWho yearned in song for greater lightAnd found it at the goblet’s brim!Forget him not, because he keepsSuch silence; guard in light and gloomUntil I reach the place he sleeps,With wine to pour upon his tomb.
KING of the wise who, long ago,Your tents built in the Persian sand,Let me your sweet contentment know,Here in my vigorous Western land.Some day, when I shall stand besideThe grave where you have lain so long—At Nishapur your body died,But your soul lives in tender song—I’ll pour upon your tomb the wineSome Western grape has given me;I’ll speak some verse, some flowing lineBorn here, beyond the Western sea.And may the time be early nightWhen torches in the desert glow,And in dim tents appears a light,While sounds the camel’s moaning, low.Then I would be at Nishapur,To stand in reverent pause and beOne happy hour a worshiper,Your grave a Mecca made for me.Oh, my beloved, I shall tasteThe grape’s blood, as your songs have said,And pour it on the desert’s waste,A tribute to the ghostly deadWhose spirits hover there, and planStrange journeys that can never end,But, in a ghostly caravan,For ages through the past extend.O, Muezzin, from the Tower of Night,Look you toward the tomb of himWho yearned in song for greater lightAnd found it at the goblet’s brim!Forget him not, because he keepsSuch silence; guard in light and gloomUntil I reach the place he sleeps,With wine to pour upon his tomb.
KING of the wise who, long ago,Your tents built in the Persian sand,Let me your sweet contentment know,Here in my vigorous Western land.
KING of the wise who, long ago,
Your tents built in the Persian sand,
Let me your sweet contentment know,
Here in my vigorous Western land.
Some day, when I shall stand besideThe grave where you have lain so long—At Nishapur your body died,But your soul lives in tender song—
Some day, when I shall stand beside
The grave where you have lain so long—
At Nishapur your body died,
But your soul lives in tender song—
I’ll pour upon your tomb the wineSome Western grape has given me;I’ll speak some verse, some flowing lineBorn here, beyond the Western sea.
I’ll pour upon your tomb the wine
Some Western grape has given me;
I’ll speak some verse, some flowing line
Born here, beyond the Western sea.
And may the time be early nightWhen torches in the desert glow,And in dim tents appears a light,While sounds the camel’s moaning, low.
And may the time be early night
When torches in the desert glow,
And in dim tents appears a light,
While sounds the camel’s moaning, low.
Then I would be at Nishapur,To stand in reverent pause and beOne happy hour a worshiper,Your grave a Mecca made for me.
Then I would be at Nishapur,
To stand in reverent pause and be
One happy hour a worshiper,
Your grave a Mecca made for me.
Oh, my beloved, I shall tasteThe grape’s blood, as your songs have said,And pour it on the desert’s waste,A tribute to the ghostly dead
Oh, my beloved, I shall taste
The grape’s blood, as your songs have said,
And pour it on the desert’s waste,
A tribute to the ghostly dead
Whose spirits hover there, and planStrange journeys that can never end,But, in a ghostly caravan,For ages through the past extend.
Whose spirits hover there, and plan
Strange journeys that can never end,
But, in a ghostly caravan,
For ages through the past extend.
O, Muezzin, from the Tower of Night,Look you toward the tomb of himWho yearned in song for greater lightAnd found it at the goblet’s brim!
O, Muezzin, from the Tower of Night,
Look you toward the tomb of him
Who yearned in song for greater light
And found it at the goblet’s brim!
Forget him not, because he keepsSuch silence; guard in light and gloomUntil I reach the place he sleeps,With wine to pour upon his tomb.
Forget him not, because he keeps
Such silence; guard in light and gloom
Until I reach the place he sleeps,
With wine to pour upon his tomb.