| Now the New Year
reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul
to Solitude retires,
Omar
Khayyam (1050?-1122)
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Wake! For the Sun, that vanished in flight
The Stars before that from the fold of
the Night,
take away the night from the Heaven and
sight
Gleaming the Sultan's Turret with a flash
of light.
Before the specter of false morning died,
Illusion of a Voice within the Tavern
cried,
When the whole temple is prepared and
ready within,
Why nod off the drowsy Worshipper outside?
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.
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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.
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,
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.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the heat of
Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time bas but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird goes on the Wing.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter rum,
The drops Wine of Life keeps oozing on
and on
The petal s of Life keep falling one by
one.
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.
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
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!
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!
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!
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
Continued on pages 2 to 5
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