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 Heart of my heart, in such an hour as this

The cup of life brims all too full of bliss,

See, it runs over in these happy tears—

How strange you seem! how solemn is your kiss!

O love, if I should die before you died,

Would you be really sorry that I died?

And would you weep a whole week on my tomb?

Then be a little happy—that I died.

And would you see some face that looked like mine,

And love it, love—because it looked like mine!

And say, "How strangely like Khayyám you are!"

And kiss the face so wondrously like mine!

Then would you bring him softly where the rose

Showered its petals upon my repose,

And shed two tears together on my tomb—

Strange are the ways of grief—who knows—who knows!