Edmund Dulac: The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
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...Awake! for Morning
in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone
that puts the Stars to Flight
Earth could not answer;
nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple,
of their Lord Forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven,
with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by
the sleeve of Night and Morn.
Perplext no more
with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle
to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers
in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender
Minister of Wine.
Heav'n but the Vision
of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow
of a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness
into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from,
shall so soon expire.
The Palace that to Heav'n
his pillars threw,
And Kings the forehead
on his threshold drew — I saw
the solitary Ringdove there,
And "Coo, coo, coo," she cried;
and "Coo, coo, coo."
Look to the blowing Rose
about us — "Lo,
Laughing," she says,
"into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel
of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure
on the Garden throw."
A Loaf of Bread, a Jug of Wine
and Thou Beside me
singing in the wilderness
Came Shining
Through the Dusk
An Angel Shape
I did make Carouse.
And in your joyous errand
reach the spot
Where I made One —
turn down an empty Glass!
You know, my Friends,
how bravely in my House
for a new Marriage
I did make Carouse.
For I remember
stopping by the way
To watch a Potter
thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd —
"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
With me along the strip
of Herbage strown
That just divides
the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave
and Sultan is forgot —
And Peace to Mahmud
on his golden Throne!
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?
So late emerged from,
shall so soon expire.
All Are But Stories
which, awake from Sleep,
They told their fellows,
and to Sleep return'd.
Nor rolling Heaven,
with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by
the sleeve of Night and Morn.
So when at last
the Angel of the Drink
of Darkness finds you
by the river-brink,
And, proffering his Cup,
invites your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff it —
do not shrink.
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