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appearance beautiful become beginning better Bodleian body Calcutta called comes Compare containing copy desire Drink wine dust earth edition Edward existence face FitzGerald garden give hand happy head heart heaven hell identical inspiration language Literally live London meaning never observed Omar Khayyām once Oriental original Paris passage passes Persian poem poet printed Professor Cowell pure quatrain referred rendering rose ruba'iyat soul story thee thing thou thou art translation verse Vide whole writes written از ان او این با بر به بود تا تو جان چو چون خوش در دست دل را کر کرد که کو کی ما مرا من مي می نه نیست هر
Страница 242 - 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.
Страница 294 - 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.
Страница 301 - 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.
Страница 276 - 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!
Страница 301 - Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
Страница 196 - 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.
Страница 268 - 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!
Страница 192 - Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last— far off— at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream ; but what am I ? An infant crying in the night ; An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.