“Come, fill the Cup, in the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing”

“Youth, like a magic bird, has flown awayHe sang a little morning-hour in MaySang to the rose, his love, that too is gone--Whither is more than you or I can say.”

“I hide my distress, just likethe blessed birds hide themselveswhen they are preparing to die. Wine! Wine, roses, music and yourindifference to my sadness, my loved-one!”

“Shall I still sigh for what I have not got, Or try with cheerfulness to bear my lot? Fill up my cup! I know not if the breath I now am drawing is my last, or not!”

“What shall I do, today? Visit the pub?Sit down in a garden with a book? A birdflies past. Where is it headed? It's out ofsight already. The drunkenness of a bird in theburning azure. The melancholy of a manin the cool shadow of a mosque.”

“How much more of the mosque, of prayer and fasting?Better go drunk and begging round the taverns.Khayyam, drink wine, for soon this clay of yoursWill make a cup, bowl, one day a jar.When once you hear the roses are in bloom,Then is the time, my love, to pour the wine;Houris and palaces and Heaven and Hell-These are but fairy-tales, forget them all.”

“I brought the cup to my lips with greedBegging for longevity, my temporal needCup brought its to mine, its secret did feedTime never returns, drink, of this take heed”