The Persian poet Omar Khyyam’s Rubaiyat, translated by Englishman Edward Fitzgerald, is one of my favorites. Although the 19th century translation is supposedly a stretch of the original quatrains, it is wonderful. Here are some verses.
A book of Verses beneath the Bough
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness–
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
There was a Door to which I found no Key;
There was a Veil through which I might not see;
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee there was–
And then no more of Thee and Me.
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.
Yesterday This Day’s Madness did prepare,
Tomorrow’s Silence, Triumph, Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go or where.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits—
And remold it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
