  Now by the memory of Kai Khosru, Of Kaikobad, of Zal and Rustem too, O English singer rousing me from sleep, The student of the stars will answer you. For what avails it cycles to have lain Since first the roses gushed their scented rain Upon my grave in Naishapur if men In the world’s winter take my name in vain? Through piled-up earth and ages echoes reach My tranquil slumbers of an alien speech, Blown over seas wherein strange doctors preach Strange sermons on the things I thought to teach. For, misinterpreting the songs I sung, By vain desire and vain ambition stung, O for one hour of that lost age! they cry, That golden age when old Khayyam was young. Fools who believe the world was otherwise Than what it now is in the Persian’s eyes, Or think the secret of content was found Beneath the canopy of Persian skies. Man is to-day what man was yesterday— Will be to-morrow; let him curse or pray, Drink or be dull, he learns not nor shall learn The lesson that will laugh the world away. The world as grey or just as golden shows, The wine as sweet or just as bitter flows, For you as me; and you, like me, may find Perfume or canker in the reddest rose. The tale of life is hard to understand; But while the cup waits ready to your hand, Drink and declare the summer roses blow As red in London as in Samarcand. Lips are as sweet to kiss and eyes as bright As ever fluttered Omar with delight; English or Persian, while the mouth is fair, What can it matter how it says good-night? Whether the legend in the Book of Youth Runs left or right, it reads a prayer for ruth; The music of the bird upon the bough Meant, and still means, no more nor less than truth. The wisdom of the wisest of the wise Is but the pinch of powder in the eyes Thrown by the fingers of the fiend, that we True things from false may fail to recognise. And not a pang which vexes human flesh, And not a problem which the Sufis thresh, But scared my body or perplexed my soul, And what I felt each man must feel afresh. So, brother, by Allah! forbear to weep: Life is a wine which you may drink as deep As ever I did, for the hour will come When you, like old Khayyam, will fall asleep. Therefore, O northern singer! prithee cease To vex my sprite with questions. Know, thy lease Was by the selfsame Master made as mine; Be patient, then, and let me sleep in peace. ?? ?????? Tum el kitaab PRINTED BY |
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