Omar Khayyam

What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? And, without asking, Whither hurried hence! Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence!

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road; But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.

There was the Door to which I found no Key; There was the 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.

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

'Tis all a Checker-board of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, He knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on.

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain—This Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which we have put into the hands of God.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return'd to me, And answer'd 'I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:'

Heaven but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Checker-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

The great mystery of life is the existence of God.

Algebra is the science of equations.

The world is a chessboard on which destiny plays with us.

Drink wine, for tomorrow we die.

The stars are setting, and the caravan starts for the dawn of nothing.

To observe the stars is to question the universe.