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Nay, ask me not about the Four-and-Five,
Is it not strange enough to be alive?
I am so busy with that daring thought—
How should I care about the Four-and-Five?
Expect not simple Khayyám to make plain
The riddles of your little prying brain,
Who stops to marvel at the simplest flower
Wonders with nought but wonder may explain.
Who knows the meaning of a grain of sand
Knows the whole meaning of the sea and land,
And simple One by thousands multiplied
Is no more difficult to understand.
How strange is man, that hath forgot so soon
The daily wonder of the sun and moon,
And his deep heart on childish riddles breaks,
And fancies idle as a summer noon.
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