But however brave and stoical Omar seems to be, still he feels sad when witnessing the flight of years and the ravages of time. It is, of course, useless to fight the inevitable, and the strongest will must bend and break before the weakening touch of age. Whether it is good or bad, all cling to existence, and sadly and reluctantly let go the tendrils that hold to pulsing life. The fading of Spring and youth, and the coming of Autumn with its suggestions of the approaching end, is most beautiful and touching in this marvelous book: Yet, Ah, 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! This strain of sadness is sincere and true. To recognize the inevitable and not pretend to deceive one’s self is one thing, but to think that all is just and wise and best may be quite another. Omar felt that fate was inexorable, relentless and hard. 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. He would have tempered her hardness with a little human love and tender pity, and bade the great Recorder leave much untold. He recognized the fact that the scheme could not be changed, and that even our brief existence depended upon our subservience to the great will that would neither break nor bend; but he still regretted that it was not better and kinder and more forgiving than it is. There is almost a wail in the strain of sadness in which he laments the rigor of unyielding fate. Would that some winged Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate! Ah Love! could you and I with him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would we not shatter it to bits—and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?