Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/160

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'Tis passing strange, those titled noblemen Find their own lives a burden sore, but when They meet with poorer men, not slaves to sense, They scarcely deign to reckon them as men.

The wheel on high, still busied with despite, Will ne'er unloose a wretch from his sad plight; But when it lights upon a smitten heart, Straightway essays another blow to smite.

Now is the volume of my youth outworn, And all my spring-tide blossoms rent and torn. Ah, bird of youth! I marked not when you came. Nor when you fled, and left me thus forlorn.