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according asking ASTRONOMER-POET OF PERSIA attain better blows Bowl buried Calcutta called CASTLE Clay close contains Copy cried Dawn died Door doubt Drink Dust Dynasty Earth Edition equal Europe evil Existence false Fate Favours Fears Figures fling Flowers fortune Garden Glimpse gone Grape Greek half hand Hasan Head heard Heaven India Jamshyd kind King Last Learning leave less Light Line live Look Love MICHIGAN Month Moon Moves Mysticism Naishápur never Night OMAR KHAYYÁM Omar's once Oriental original passed perhaps Persian pleasure Poems Poets Practice pupils Rest Result Review rising Rose round says Seven Snow sold sometimes Soul speaks Spring Story Sultan sweet talk Tavern tell THEE Things Thou Thought Thousand To-MORROW Translated turned Universe Verse Vessel Vine Vizier whence whither Wind Wine Wise World written Yellow
Page 1 - 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!
Page 7 - The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, He knows about it all — HE knows — HE knows!
Page xiv - And those who husbanded the Golden grain, And those who flung it to the winds like Rain, Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
Page 13 - Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set.
Page 1 - 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.
Page 7 - With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
Page 1 - 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?
Page 11 - 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.