Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/314

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O Lord! pity this prisoned heart, I pray, Pity this bosom stricken with dismay! Pardon these hands that ever grasp the cup, These feet that to the tavern ever stray!

Lord! from self-conceit deliver me, Sever from self, and occupy with Thee! This self is captive to earth's good and ill, Make me beside myself, and set me free!

Behold the tricks this wheeling dome doth play, And earth laid bare of old friends torn away! O live this present moment, which is thine, Seek not a morrow, mourn not yesterday!