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The Craftsman who hath made a cup so rare
To hold his wine, will handle it with care.
For love of whom, then, made He thee and me,
For hate of whom to break and not to spare?
Like Wind or Water, passing on its way,
Out of my life goes yet another day.
Two days there are that never trouble me -
One has not come, the other could not stay.
I was not asked to choose my natal morn,
I die as helplessly as I was born.
Bring wine, and I will strive to wash away
The recollection of Creation's scorn.
Khayyám, who stitch'd at Wisdom's golden tent,
Through Sorrow's white-hot furnaces was sent;
The tent-rope of his life by fate was cut,
And for a song he from the Broker went.
Khayyám! for all thy sins pray do not deign
To mourn; thy grief can earn thee naught but pain.
Mercy was made for Sinners. Why then grieve?
For they who sin not, Mercy may not gain.
In cell and cloister, mosque and synagogue,
Are men whose steps the fear of Hell doth dog;
But he who carries God within his breast
Is independent of the Pedagogue.
If in the Spring, she whom I love so well
Meet me by some green bank - the truth I tell -
Bringing my thirsty soul a cup of wine,
I want no better Heaven, nor fear a Hell.
Know this, that soon thou diest, and thy soul
The Book of God's Great Secret must unroll;
Be happy! knowing not whence thou hast come,
Nor whither thou shalt go. Drink out the Bowl!
Falling asleep, I heard my Fate confess
That Sleep ne'er bore the Rose of Happiness.
"Sleep is the Mate of Death," she cried. "Awake!
Drink, ere Her lips bestow the last caress!"
Then inspiration from on High I sought,
Asking that Knowledge might to me be brought;
But presently my heart said,"Pray no more!
The power of Prayer is all, the Prayer is naught!"
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