Omar Khayyam Quotes
Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.
The only certainty in life is uncertainty.
Drink because you are happy, but never because you are miserable.
The moving finger writes, and having written 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.
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou beside me singing in the wilderness.
The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.
A book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread – and thou.
He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool. Shun him.
The bird of time has but a little way to flutter, and the bird is on the wing.
The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.
They say the lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep.
In the sweet spring a grassy bank I sought, and thither wine and a fair Houri brought; And, though the people called me debauchee, I am not–though I have heard the Rubaiyat.
Ah, fill the cup: – what boots it to repeat how Time is slipping underneath our Feet: Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday, Why fret about them if Today be sweet!
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.
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.
Ah, with the grape my fading life provide, and wash my body whence the life has died, and in a windingsheet of vine-leaf wrapt, so bury me by some sweet garden-side.
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again – how oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us through this same Garden – and for one in vain!
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.
Into this Universe, and why not knowing, nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing: and out of it, as wind along the waste, I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Tis all a Chequer-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 vine had struck a fibre; which about if clings my being – let the Dervish flout; of my Base metal may be filed a Key, that shall unlock the Door he howls without.
For in and out, above, about, below, ‘Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, played in a Box whose candle is the Sun, round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way to fly . . .
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop’t we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help — for It As impotently moves as you or I.
Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End!
With Earth’s first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow’d the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
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.
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!