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^ilogue
Tomorrow! Why, tomorrow 1 may be
Myself with yesterday's seven thousand years...
Lo, some we loved, the loveliest and best
That time and fate of all their vintage pressed
Have drunk their cup a round or two before
And one by one crept silently to rest...
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the dust descend...
One thing is certain, and the rest is lies;
The flower that once hath blown for ever dies...
How time is slipping underneath our feet:
Unborn tomorrow, and dead yesterday,
Why fret aboul them if today be sweet...
Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days,
Where destiny, with men for pieces, plays;
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays...
The moving finger writes; and having writ
Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
Shall lure it back 10 cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it...
And that inverted bowl we call the sky,
Whereunder crawling, cooped we live and die -
Lift not thy hands to it for help; for it
Rolls impotently on, as thou and 1.
Omar Khayyam : Edward Fitzgerald
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