(From the translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam by Edward Fitzgerald. Illustrations by René Bull.)
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly---and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And look---a thousand blossoms with the Day
Woke---and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshid and Kaikobad away.
Alas, 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!
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse --- and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness ---
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Ah my Beloved, come, fill the cup that clears
Today, of past regrets and future fears
Tomorrow? Why tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's seven thousand years!
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.