Striking from the Calendar Unborn Tomorrow and dead Yesterday.
Edward Fitzgerald (1809 - 1883)
Source: The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, Persian writer & astronomer (c.1050–c.1123)
Contributed by: Zaady
One thing at least is certain - This life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is lies; The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
The moving finger writes; and having writ Moves on: not all your piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help - for It As impotently rolls as you or I.
A moment's halt - a momentary taste Of being from the well amid the waste - And lo - the phantom caravan has reached The nothing it set out from - oh, make haste!
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 now!
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