Quotes from Edward Fitzgerald

Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest.

If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.

And when like her, O Saki, you shall passAmong the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One—turn down an empty Glass!

I wonder often what the Vintners buyOne half so precious as the stuff they sell.

After a momentary silence spakeSome Vessel of a more ungainly Make;"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

Striking from the CalendarUnborn Tomorrow and dead Yesterday.

The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the bestThat from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest.

Whether we wake or we sleep, Whether we carol or weep, The Sun with his Planets in chime, Marketh the going of Time.

Think, in this batter'd CaravanseraiWhose Portals are alternate Night and Day,How Sultan after Sultan with his PompAbode his destin'd Hour, and went his way.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so longHave 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 conspireTo grasp this Sorry Scheme of Things entire,Would not we shatter it to bits—and thenRemold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clearsToday of past Regrets and future Fears:Tomorrow!—Why, Tomorrow I may beMyself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great argumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same door wherein I went.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness—Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

I sometimes think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

Wake! For the Sun who scatter'd into flightThe Stars before him from the Field of night,Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikesThe Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of NightHas flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight:And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caughtThe Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

That inverted Bowl we call The Sky,Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die.

And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane.