Rubaiyat

Life is short.

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.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into dust descend;
Dust into dust, and under dust to lie,
Sane wine, sans song, sans singer, and - sans end.

Tis all a chequerboard 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.

Life goes the way it goes.

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

Life is sweet.

Ah, fill the cup, whats boots it to repeat,
How time is slipping underneath our feet,
Unborn to-morrow, and dead yesterday,
Why fret about them if today be sweet.

Drink to it.

How long, how long, in definite pursuit,
Of this and that endeavor and dispute,
Better be merry with the fruitful grape,
Than sadder after none, or bitter, fruit.

The grape that can with logic absolute,
The two and seventy jarring sects confute,
The subtle alchemist that in a trice,
Life's leaden metal to gold transmute.

Live for today,

Some for the glories of this world, and some,
Sign for the prophet's paradise to come,
Ah, take the cash and let the promise go,
Nor heed the music of a distant drum.

Ah, my beloved fill the cup that clears,
Today of past regret and future fears,
Tomorrow! Why tomorrow I may be,
Myself with yesterday's seven thousand years.

And don't let religion get in the way.

Why, all the saints and sages who discussed,
Of the two worlds so learnedly, are thrust,
Like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn,
Are scattered, and their mouths are stopt with dust.

Oh threats of hell and hopes of paradise,
One thing at least is certain - this life flies,
One thing is certain and the rest is lies,
The flower that once is blown forever dies.

What out of senseless nothing to provoke,
A conscious something to resent the yoke,
Of unpermitted pleasure, under pain,
Of everlasting penalties, if broke!

And when death comes,

Ah, with the grape my fading life provide,
And wash my body whence the life has died,
And in a winding sheet of vine leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet garden side.

I sometimes think that never blows so red,
The rose as where some buried Caeser bled,
The every Hyacinth the garden wears,
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head.

(Aside - Deflation is bad :) )

What! From his helpless creature be repaid,
Pure gold for what he lent us dross allayed,
Sue for a debt we never did contract,
And cannot answer - oh the sorry trade!