Omar Khayyam

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire.

Dust into dust and under dust to lie Sans wine sans song sans singer and - sans end.

There was the Door to which I found no key There was the Veil through which I might not see.

One thing is certain and the rest is lies The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

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.

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.

Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go nor where.

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-mold it nearer to the heart's desire!

Strange - is it not? - that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through Not one returns to tell us of the road Which to discover we must travel too.

Ah take the cash and let the credit go.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went.