Jan 242011
 

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.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That from his vintage rolling time hath prest,

Have drunk their cup a round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

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?

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!


Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam