Quotes from Omar Khayyam

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.

My friend, let's not think of tomorrow, but let's enjoy this fleeting moment of life.

So I be written in the Book of Love. I do not care about that Book Above. Erase my name, or write it as you will. So I be written in the Book of Love.

Hearts are like tapers, which at beauteous eyes Kindle a flame of love that never dies; And beauty is a flame, where hearts, like moths, Offer themselves a burning sacrifice.

I hide my grief, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die, my love.

And this I know; whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite, One flash of it within the Tavern caught Better than in the temple lost outright.

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 then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire?

Thy Return is as another Sun to Heaven; a new Rose blooming in the Garden of the Soul.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two - is gone.

The bird of time has but a little way To flutter - and the bird is on the wing.

A hair divides what is false and true.

We are in truth but pieces on this chess board of life, which in the end we leave, only to drop one by one into the grave of nothingness.

The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.

The wine-cup is the little silver well, Where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell.

It's too bad if a heart lacks fire, and is deprived of the light of a heart ablaze.The day on which you arewithout passionate loveis the most wasted day of your life.

Ah, take the cash, and let the credit go.

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

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

One thing is certain and the rest is lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness -And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

There was the door to which I found no key, There was the veil through which 1 might not see.

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!

All this of Pot and Potter - Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?