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

“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.”

“When Allah created me, he knew that Iwould drink a lot of wine. So if I didn't, theomniscience of Allah would stand on its head.”

“When you have plantedthe rose of Love into your heartyour life has not been in vain.”

“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!”

“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.”

“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.”