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(From the translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam by Edward Fitzgerald. Illustrations by René Bull.)
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Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly---and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And look---a thousand blossoms with the Day
Woke---and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshid and Kaikobad away.
Alas, that spring should vanish with the rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
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Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse --- and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness ---
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Ah my Beloved, come, fill the cup that clears
Today, of past regrets and future fears
Tomorrow? Why tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's seven thousand years!
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
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