OMAR KHAYYAM

Omar Khayyam was born in Naishapur in Khorassan, Persia, in the latter half of the eleventh century. Very little is known about him; he was active in astronomy and in calendar reform, and wrote a treatise on algebra. His family name means 'tentmaker'. He died probably in 1123. 

The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on.
And nor all thy piety, nor all thy wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line.
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it."

To be aware of each moment spent
Is to live in the now, and be present
Worry for morrow shan’t make a dent
Caring for the now, your mind must be bent.

This Universal wheel, this merry-go-round
In our imagination we have found
The sun a flame, in the Cosmic lantern bound
We are mere ghosts, revolving, the flame surround

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.

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."

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.

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.

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?

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:"

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.

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,
     A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness
cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."

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 as in I went.

Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
     Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And -- "A blind understanding!" Heav'n replied.

Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
My Lip 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."

'Tis all a Chequer-board 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.

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
     Lift not thy hands to It for help -- for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
     One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

And strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
     And suddenly one more impatient cried --
"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
     Would not we shatter it to bits -- and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

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