Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/112

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The Bulbul to the garden winged his way, Viewed lily cups, and roses smiling gay, Cried in ecstatic notes, "O live your life, You never will re-live this fleeting day."

Thy body is a tent, where harbourage The Sultan spirit takes for one brief age; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher death, Strikes it, and onward moves, another stage.

Khayyám, who long time stitched the tents of learning, Has fallen into a furnace, and lies burning, Death's shears have cut his thread of life asunder, Fate's brokers sell him off with scorn and spurning.