Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam Quotes

Beyond the earth, beyond the farthest skies I try to find Heaven and Hell. Then I hear a solemn voice that says: "Heaven and hell are inside.

How sad, a heart that does not know how to love, that does not know what it is to be drunk with love. If you are not in love, how can you enjoy the blinding light of the sun, the soft light of the moon?

Drink wine and look at the moon and think of all the civilisations the moon has seen passing by.

A book of verses underneath the bough A flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou Beside me singing in the wilderness And wilderness is paradise now.

Poor soul, you will never know anything of real importance. You will not uncover even one of life's secrets. Although all religions promise paradise, take care to create your own paradise here and now on earth.

Realise this: one day your soul will depart from your body and you will be drawn behind the curtain that floats between us and the unknown. While you wait for that moment, be happy, because you don't know where you came from and you don't know where you will be going.

O friend, for the morrow let us not worry This moment we have now, let us not hurry When our time comes, we shall not tarry With seven thousand-year-olds, our burden carry

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness - And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

When you are so full of sorrow that you can't walk, can't cry anymore, think about the green foliage that sparkles after the rain. When the daylight exhausts you, when you hope a final night will cover the world, think about the awakening of a young child.

Scholars really have nothing to teach you. But from the soft touch of the eyelashes of a woman you will know all there is to know about happiness.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face Lighting a little Hour or two--is gone.

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light

There are too many tears in my eyes! The fires of Hell are no more than sparks of fire as compared to the flames that consume me inside. Paradise? For me it means a moment of peace.

I have not asked for life. But I try to accept whatever life brings without surprise. And I shall depart again without having questioned anyone about my strange stay here on earth.

Tis all a Chequer-board of nights and days Where Destiny with men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates,and slays, And one by one back in the closet lays.

I value the lover's sighs of happiness and I despise the hypocrite mumbling his prayers.

To all of us the thought of heaven is dear --- Why not be sure of it and make it here? No doubt there is a heaven yonder too, But 'tis so far away --- and you are near.

Don't pursue happiness! Life is as short as a sigh. The dust of people that were once famous turn with the reddish clay on the wheel you are looking at. The universe is a fata morgana; life is a dream.

Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; The Flower that once blown for ever dies.

Come, fill the Cup, in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing

When Allah created me, he knew that I would drink a lot of wine. So if I didn't, the omniscience of Allah would stand on its head.

It is a shame for anyone to be well-known for righteousness. It is a great disgrace to feel distress at the injustice of the turning of the wheels of fate.

I hide my distress, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die. Wine! Wine, roses, music and your indifference to my sadness, my loved-one!

ماییم که اصل شادی و کان غمیم سرمایه ی دادیم و نهاد ستمیم پستیم و بلندیم و کمالیم و کمیم آیینه ی زنگ خورده و جام جمیم

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die, Lift not thy hands to it for help -- for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

Where is an intimate friend who’ll hear the secret from me straight out– of what human beings have been from the moment they began? They are born of toil and molded from the clay of sorrow. They wander the world for a time, then set off.

Of all my seeking this is all my gain: No agony of any mortal brain Shall wrest the secret of the life of man; The Search has taught me that the Search is vain.

Why was I born, when will I die? Who can change the day of his birth, who has a say in the day of his death? Come, my beloved, I want to ask the spirit of the wine to make me forget that we shall never understand.

May your love for your beloved be as great as the love of the bottle for the glass. Look, how one gives and one receives, lip against lip, the precious blood of the grapes!

Dawn filled the sky with roses. In the crystal-clear air the last song of the nightingale dies. The smell of the wine weakens. This is the moment when fools dream of fame! How soft is your hair, my beloved!

Be quiet, pain and sorrow! Let me find a remedy. I have to live, as once dead there is no memory. And I want to see my love and be with her. And I want to remember our being together.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and - sans End!

But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me The Quarrel of the Universe let be: And, in some corner of the Hubbub couch'd, Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

What is my true substance? What will remain of me after my death? Our life is as short as a raging fire: flames the passer-by soon forgets, ashes the wind blows away. A man's life.

Shall I still sigh for what I have not got, Or try with cheerfulness to bear my lot? Fill up my cup! I know not if the breath I now am drawing is my last, or not!

نمضي و تبقى العيشةالراضية وتنمحي آثارناالماضية فقبل أن نحيا ومن بعدنا وهذه الدنيا على ماهيه

You say some Greek philosophers could dazzle their audiences with their riddles? That does not interest me at all. Bring more wine instead and play your lute; your changes in tones remind me of the wind that rushes past and disappears, just like us.

Scholars really have nothing to teach you. But from the soft touch of the eyelashes of a woman you will know all there is to know about happiness. Buy wine, take it to a secluded place and let it comfort you.

We shall perish along the path of Love. Fate will trample us. Yeah, tempting young woman, get up and give me your lips before I return to dust.

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so wisely - they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

What shall I do, today? Visit the pub? Sit down in a garden with a book? A bird flies past. Where is it headed? It's out of sight already. The drunkenness of a bird in the burning azure. The melancholy of a man in the cool shadow of a mosque.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

The scent of wine rising from my grave will be so strong that it will intoxicate passers-by. There will be such an atmosphere of serenity that couples in love will find it impossible to tear themselves away.

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in the Nothing all Things end in - Yes - Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what Thou shalt be - Nothing - though shalt not be less.

هر یک چندی یکی بر آید که: منم! با نعمت و با سیم و زر آید که: منم! چون کارَک او نظام گیرد روزی، ناگه، اجل از کمین در آید که: منم!

The leaves of life are falling one by one

For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Is it not a Shame--is it not a Shame for him So long in this Clay suburb to abide!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

I see a horseman disappearing into the evening mist. Will he travel through woods or across wild plains? Where is he heading? I don't know. Tomorrow, will I be stretched out above or below the earth? I don't know.

Our life is as short as a raging fire: flames the passer-by soon forgets, ashes the wind blows away. A man's life.

Into this Universe, and why not knowing, Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

One can no more set fire to the sea, than convince people of the dangers of happiness - And yet, we know that though the smallest shock is fatal to the filled up bottle, that shock will not break the empty one.

God is great!" That shout from the mosque seems like a grand lamentation. Five times a day the earth seems to groan against its indifferent creator!

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in —Yes; Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY You were—TO-MORROW you shall not be less

God, you have paved our path with a thousand invisible stumbling stones and you have said: woe betide those that stumble! You see all and you know all. Nothing happens without your consent, so how can you hold us responsible for our failures? Can you blame me that I object to this?

Of threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain—This Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

Of threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain—This Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is

Dünyada olan biteni ben de görmedeyim; Haksızları hep baş köşelerde görmedeyim; Fesuphanallah! Nereye bakarsam bakayım Kendi mutsuzluğumu her yerde görmedeyim.

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

The arch of heaven looks like an upside-down cup, under which the wise wander in vain. May your love for your beloved be as great as the love of the bottle for the glass. Look, how one gives and one receives, lip against lip, the precious blood of the grapes.

The creator of stars, heaven and earth surpassed himself when he also created pain. Lips like rubies, delicious-smelling hair, blooming flowers, how many of you are already buried in earthy soil?

Admettons que tu aies résolu l'énigme de la création. Quel est ton destin? Admettons que tu aies pu dépouiller de toutes ses robes la Vérité. Quel est ton destin? Admettons que tu aies vécu cent ans, heureux, et que tu vives cent ans encore. Quel est ton destin?

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.

Fool! Your reward is neither here nor there!

How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"—think some: Others—"How blest the Paradise to come!" Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

Strange is the riddle of this life of ours! Who knows the meaning of the heavenly powers? Great Caesar's wounds bleed yearly in the rose, And flower-like ladies turn again to flowers.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, A Book of Verse - and Thou Beside Me Singing in the Wilderness - And Wilderness is Paradise Now." -from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

And do you think that unto such as you A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew God gave a secret, and denied it me? Well, well—what matters it? Believe that, too! —THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM (RICHARD LE GALLIENNE TRANSLATION)

And do you think that unto such as you, A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew, God gave the Secret, and denied it me?-- Well, well, what matters it! believe that too. Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee; If only you were half so good as he! He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness, Great-hearted mirth and kind adultery. But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue, The wintry soul that hates to hear a song, The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye, And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.

One of the world’s most fascinating mysteries is surely the Tamam Shud case. In December 1948, an unidentified man was found dead on a beach in Adelaide. The only clue to a possible identity was a tiny piece of paper found in a hidden pocket sewn into the trousers of the dead man with the words ‘Tamam Shud’ scribbled on it. The phrase is used on the last page of a collection of poems of Omar Khayyam called The Rubaiyat, a copy of which was found with a scribbled code in it, which was believed to have been written in there by the dead man. What does the code mean? What was it leading him to? Why and how did he die? All of these questions remain completely unanswered to this day and the case is as much of a mystery now as it was the very day the body was discovered.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after a TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.

I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day, I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all obliterated Tongue It murmur'd—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!" XXXVII.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face Lighting a little Hour or two—is gone.

TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears- To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

There was a Door to which I found no Key: There was a Veil past which I could not see: Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE There seemed—and then no more of THEE and ME.

For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

Que te baste con saber que todo es un misterio: la creación, tú y el destino del Universo. Sonríe. No sabrás nada más cuando hayas franqueado las puertas de la Nada.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

ای مفتی شهر از تو پر کارتریم با این همه مستی از تو هوشیارتریم تو خون کسان خوری و ما خون رزان انصاف بده کدام خونخوارتریم

And out my cup,
life keeps pouring out, it never stops — Like the autumn leaves;
breath by breath, they're falling off.

Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

We do much more work than you. Even when we are drunk, We are still more sober than you. You drink people's blood, And we drink the grape's blood. Let's be fair, which one of us is more immoral?

from Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat: "Set not thy heart on any good or gain, Life means but pleasure, or means but pain; when Time lets slip a little perfect hour, O take it - for it will not come again.

Ne laisse point le chagrin s'emparer de toi ; Ni ennui et tristesse assombrir tes jours. N'abandonne ni le livre, ni le bord du ruisseau, ni la lisière du champ, Avant que la terre ne te prenne dans son sein.

Rubaiyat Revină-n glasul meu persanul vers Spre a ne aminti că timpul-i un divers Mod de-a urzi avide visuri vane, În taine risipite-n univers. Din nou să spună că țărână-i focul, Țărână-i trupul, și că asta-i jocul: Viața mea și-a ta sunt râu ce curge Necontenit și repede-n tot locul. Și că impunătorul monument Zidit cu trudă, din trufie, lent, Un vânt fugar e numai, că-n lumina Lui Dumnezeu un veac e un moment. ... Te rog, persană lună, să revii, Și voi, incerte-apusuri aurii. Azi e ieri. Nu ește decât ceilalți. Tărână-i chipul lor. Cu morții-învii.

Eventually, the men’s talk of politics turned to poetry. The recitations could begin with a quatrain from Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat: I need a jug of wine and a book of poetry, Half a loaf for a bite to eat, Then you and I, seated in a deserted spot, Will have more wealth than a Sultan’s realm. To which a voice might answer with a poem by Rumi: My arrow of love has arrived at the target I am in the house of mercy and my heart is a place of prayer. These gatherings went on for hours, with one guest after another reciting poems of the Persian masters—Rumi, Khayyam, Sa’adi, snd Hafez. That my father, the Colonel, who could make us cower with a single sidelong glance, produced the most skillful recitations both bewildered and fascinated me. His voice had a deep timbre perfectly suited to reciting verse, and the frequent cries of “Lovely!” and “Exquisite!” roused him to ever more passionate declamation. I listened from behind the window, enraptured by the music of a language that can sometimes sound like susurrations of a lover and sometimes like the reed’s plaintive song. The words hooked into me and wouldn’t let me go. Rivers, oceans, and deserts, the nightingale and the rose—the perennial symbols of Persian poetry first grew familiar to me through these late-night scenes in the garden, and even though I was still a young girl, only just a child, the verses called me away to different lands.

His answer was to read to me—in a deep, richly cadenced voice that gave me my first glimmering that words could be as eloquent as music—but it was all poetry of loss and mourning: “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,” A Shropshire Lad, and T. S. Eliot. One line from “East Coker” was especially worrisome:

I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the Goods they sell

quoting Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat: "Good friends beware! the only life we knows Flies from us like an arrow from the bow, the Caravan of life is moving by, Quick! to your places in the passing show.

All the effective knowledge is very much hidden in the deep recesses of human mind. This is the reason, be it melodies of Mozart or Omar Khayyam's rubaiyat, Krishna's Bhagavad Gita or Einstein's formula which transformed the world E=mc2; all of them have stemmed from within.

A book of verses, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, now that’s divine. The Rubaiyat, no longer an afterthought, I see the light!