Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám: The Astronomer-poet of Persia

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Macmillan, 1890 - 112 Seiten
 

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Seite 76 - Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus? Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?
Seite 35 - A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Seite 48 - Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
Seite 37 - They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahram, that great Hunter— the wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his sleep.
Seite 45 - And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in — Yes; Think then you are To-day what Yesterday You were — To-morrow you shall not be less.
Seite 63 - Yet Ah, 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...
Seite 38 - 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...
Seite 39 - 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! Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after some TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries: 'Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.
Seite 58 - Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd — Man's forgiveness give — and take!
Seite 54 - But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

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