Give Me A Flagon Of Red Wine,

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 Yours Will 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.

Indeed The Idols I Have Loved So Long, Have Done My Credit In This World Much Wrong; Have Drowned My Glory In A Shallow Cup, And Sold My Reputation For A Song.

Drink! For You Know Not When You Came, Nor Why; Drink! For You Know Not Why You Go, Nor Where.

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.

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.