Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, the Astronomer-poet of Persia

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Bernard Quaritch, 1859 - 21 Seiten
 

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Seite 5 - Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend: Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and —sans End!
Seite 4 - 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.
Seite 11 - The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, He knows about it all — HE knows — HE knows!
Seite 4 - 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.
Seite 17 - Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set.
Seite 5 - Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears — To-morrow ? — Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
Seite 11 - 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.
Seite 5 - And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend — ourselves to make a Couch — for whom?
Seite 15 - And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour — well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
Seite 7 - Into this Universe, and Why not knowing, Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.

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