Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám: Being a Facsimile of the Manuscript in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, with a Trascript Into Modern Persian CharactersL.C. Page, Incorporated, 1898 - 320 pàgines |
Altres edicions - Mostra-ho tot
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám: Being a Facsimile of the Manuscript in the ... Omar Khayyam Visualització completa - 1898 |
Passatges populars
Pàgina 242 - Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went.
Pàgina 300 - But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days ; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Pàgina 294 - Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
Pàgina 301 - And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted— "Open then the Door! "You know how little while we have to stay, "And, once departed, may return no more.
Pàgina 276 - Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits — and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Pàgina 301 - Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
Pàgina 196 - Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End! Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after some TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.
Pàgina 268 - A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Pàgina 192 - Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last— far off— at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream ; but what am I ? An infant crying in the night ; An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.
Pàgina 154 - Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! XIV Look to the blowing Rose about us — 'Lo, Laughing...