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Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

Omar Khayyam

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Omar Khayyam
Age: 83 †
Born: 1048
Born: May 15
Died: 1131
Died: December 4
Astrologer
Astronomer
Lyricist
Mathematician
Musician
Philosopher
Physicist
Poet
Writer
Neyshabur
Omar Khayyam
Hakim Omar Khayyám
Manuscripts
Vanish
Alas
Rose
Spring
Close
Scented
Youth
Youths
Sweet
Manuscript

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A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.
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To-day is thine to spend, but not to-morrow Counting on morrows breedeth bankrupt sorrow: O squander not this breath that Heaven hath lent thee Make not too sure another breath to borrow.
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The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute.
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I can’t reveal the mystery to either saint or sinner I can’t state at length what I’ve said curtly I achieve an altered state that I can’t explain I have a secret that I cannot share.
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Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!
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There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.
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Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.
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The value of three things is justly appreciated by all classes of men: youth, by the old health, by the diseased and wealth, by the needy.
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Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destin'd Hour and went his way.
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By Fate full many a heart has been undone, And many a sprightly rose made woe-begone Plume thee not on thy lusty youth and strength: Full many a bud is blasted ere its bloom.
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The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
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How sad, a heart that does not know how to love, that does not know what it is to be drunk with love. If you are not in love, how can you enjoy the blinding light of the sun, the soft light of the moon?
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You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more.
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Here's to the man Who owns the land That bears the grapes That makes the wine That tastes as good As this does.
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If I don't enjoy myself now, when shall I?
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The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing-Oh, make haste!
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The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.
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The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
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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.
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Into this universe, and why not knowing Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing And out of it, as wind along the wate, I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
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