Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. LXXI 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. LXXII 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! LXXIII Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! LXXIV Ah, Moon of my Delight, who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me--in vain! LXXV And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot Where I made one--turn down an empty Glass! TAMÁM SHUD [Illustration: RUBÁIYÁT·OF·OMAR·KHAYYÁM] THE SECOND EDITION OF THE TRANSLATION I Wake! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night; And, to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light. II Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, "When all the Temple is prepared within, Why lags the drowsy Worshipper outside?" III And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door! You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more." IV Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires. V Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine, And many a Garden by the Water blows. VI And David's lips are lockt; but in divine High-piping Péhleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine. VII Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing. VIII Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon, Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. IX