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blows Boston Bowl buried called cents Clay Cloth copies cries Darkness divine Door drawings drink Dust Earth EDWARD FITZGERALD ENGLISH VERSE Face Fourth edition Garden give gone Grape Green hand Head Heav'n Introduction issued John King late leaving letter Light Line live London Look loved Moon Morning moves Naishápúr never Nicolas Night numbered Octavo OMAR KHAYYAM Omar's once Oriental original Paradise passing perhaps Persian Poet Potter PREFACE prepare present printed quatrains RENDERED INTO ENGLISH reprint rest Rose round Rubaiyát SECOND EDITION Shape Song Soul Spring Square Story Súfi Sultan taste Tavern tell THEE thing Thou thought TO-DAY To-morrow translation True turn vellum VERSE Vessel Water whence White Wind Wine wise World wrapper writes XVIII York
Página 101 - Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits — and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Página 84 - 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 a TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries 'Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!
Página 97 - As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away, Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
Página 95 - 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.
Página 82 - The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes — or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two — is gone.
Página 51 - The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
Página 81 - 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 ! XII " How sweet is mortal Sovrainty ! " — think some ; Others " How blest the Paradise to come!
Página 28 - I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Página 22 - And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted — "Open then the Door! You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more.