tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3407624264627208128.post4854106688453052742..comments2024-01-26T21:38:25.924-08:00Comments on Duane's PoeTree: Jack Scott writesDuanesPoeTreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053093400086634552noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3407624264627208128.post-6814661123066821692016-11-25T19:15:26.722-08:002016-11-25T19:15:26.722-08:00from Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyám
I
A Book of Verses ...from Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyám<br /><br />I<br />A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,<br />A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread - and Thou<br />Beside me singing in the Wilderness -<br />O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!<br /><br />Some for the Glories of This World; and some<br />Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;<br />Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,<br />Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!<br /><br />Look to the blowing Rose about us - 'Lo,<br />Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,<br />At once the silken tassel of my Purse<br />Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'<br /><br />And those who husbanded the Golden grain<br />And those who flung it to the winds like Rain<br />Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd<br />As, buried once, Men want dug up again.<br /><br />II<br /><br />Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai<br />Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,<br />How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp<br />Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.<br /><br />They say the Lion and the Lizard keep<br />The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:<br />And Bahram, that great Hunter - the wild Ass<br />Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.<br /><br />I sometimes think that never blows so red<br />The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;<br />That every Hyacinth the Garden wears<br />Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.<br /><br />And this reviving Herb whose tender Green<br />Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean -<br />Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows<br />From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!<br /><br />Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clears<br />TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears:<br />To-morrow! - Why, To-morrow I may be<br />Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.<br /><br />For some we loved, the loveliest and the best<br />That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,<br />Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,<br />And one by one crept silently to rest.<br /><br />And we, that now make merry in the Room<br />They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,<br />Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth<br />Descend - ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?<br /><br />Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,<br />Before we too into the Dust descend;<br />Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie,<br />Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and - sans End!<br /><br />III<br />Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,<br />And wash my Body whence the Life has died,<br />And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,<br />By some not unfrequented Garden-side....<br /><br />Yon rising Moon that looks for us again -<br />How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;<br />How oft hereafter rising look or us<br />Through this same Garden-and for one in vain!<br /><br />And when like her O Saki, you shall pass<br />Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,<br />And in your joyous errand reach the spot<br />Where I made One - turn down an empty Glass! <br /><br />-- tr. Edward FitzGeraldDuanesPoeTreehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17053093400086634552noreply@blogger.com