O Saki, when at last is run my race,
Will you remember my accustomed place,
When through the garden all the summer night
The moon goes seeking my forgotten face?
This is the thought the dead man thinks upon:
Warm in the sun the old kind world spins on,
Trellised with vines and roses as of old,
And no one says—"Where is old Khayyám gone?"
O friends, forget not, as you laugh and play,
Some that were laughing with you yesterday,
Spare from your rose some petals for their graves,
Sprinkle some wine upon their parching clay.
For even this dust that blows along the street
Once whispered to its love that life was sweet,
Ruddy with wine it was, with roses crowned,
And now you spurn it with your eager feet.
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