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 But O may never dawn that last sad hour

When wine shall fail of its accustomed power,

And I shall look with dull forgetful eyes,

An old dead man, on maidens in their flower.

Then were it time indeed to say good-bye

To the green earth and the old happy sky;

Bury me quick, a garrulous old corpse,—

There is no more of Khayyám left to die.