Quote

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.

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
Breaths
Lent
Thee
Bankrupt
Sorrow
Thine
Spend
Borrow
Sure
Morrow
Heaven
Counting
Another
Hath
Make
Breath
Squander

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You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house favored old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.
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Oh, the brave Music of a distant drum!
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Heaven has not learned of my arrival, and my departure will not in the least diminish it beauty and grandeur. I will sleep underground, for us ephemeral mortals, the only eternity is the moment and drinking to the moment is better than weeping for it.
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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!
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Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.
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Drink! For you know not whence you came nor why.
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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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The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing-Oh, make haste!
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Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
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He who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere.
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Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
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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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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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To be free of belief and unbelief is my religion.
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A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.
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This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.
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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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This clay, so strong of heart, of sense so fine,Surely such clay is more than half divine--'Tis only fools speak evil of the clay,The very stars are made of clay like mine.
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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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Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so wisely - they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth their Words to Scorn Are scattered, and their mouths are stopped with Dust.
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