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Khayyám, who long at learning's tents hath sewn,
Bids thee leave How? and Why? and Whence? alone;
Iram's soft lute, with sorrow in its strings,
Will tell thee all that ever can be known.
Wisest of all the wise is he who knows
What saith the wine as in the cup it flows,
And he alone is learned who can read
The little scented pages of the rose.
This little rose, frail shape of summer's breath,
How often hath she journeyed down to death,
The mighty tarried, but this rose returned—
Think then how strange must be the words she saith.
Sweet rose that in the darksome earth hath been,
O tell me—have you there my true love seen?
That was herself so fair a rose, until
Death touched her brow and changed her to a queen.
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