This Charming Man



Untitled


A List Of Things That Make Life Worth Living

(By RockStroke)



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klammer



Dear gleaming face, far brighter than the moon!
O Love! and this immortalizing kiss.
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.
Men talk of heaven,—there is no heaven but here;
Men talk of hell,—there is no hell but here;
Men of hereafters talk, and future lives,—
O love, there is no other life—but here.
My soul went knocking at each starry door,
Till on the stilly top of heaven’s stair,
Clear-eyed I looked—and laughed—and climbed no more.
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.
Look not above, there is no answer there;
Pray not, for no one listens to your prayer;
NEAR is as near to God as any FAR,
And HERE is just the same deceit as THERE.
But here are wine and beautiful young girls,
Be wise and hide your sorrows in their curls,
Dive as you will in life’s mysterious sea,
You shall not bring us any better pearls.
If Allah be, He keeps His secret well;
What He hath hidden, who shall hope to find?
Shall God His secret to a maggot tell?
So since with all my passion and my skill,
The world’s mysterious meaning mocks me still,
Shall I not piously believe that I
Am kept in darkness by the heavenly will?
The Koran! well, come put me to the test—
Lovely old book in hideous error drest—
Believe me, I can quote the Koran too,
The unbeliever knows his Koran best.
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.
So I be written in the Book of Love,
I have no care about that book above;
Erase my name, or write it, as you please—
So I be written in the Book of Love.


Omar Khayyám

Dear gleaming face, far brighter than the moon!

O Love! and this immortalizing kiss.

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.

Men talk of heaven,—there is no heaven but here;

Men talk of hell,—there is no hell but here;

Men of hereafters talk, and future lives,—

O love, there is no other life—but here.

My soul went knocking at each starry door,

Till on the stilly top of heaven’s stair,

Clear-eyed I looked—and laughed—and climbed no more.

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.

Look not above, there is no answer there;

Pray not, for no one listens to your prayer;

NEAR is as near to God as any FAR,

And HERE is just the same deceit as THERE.

But here are wine and beautiful young girls,

Be wise and hide your sorrows in their curls,

Dive as you will in life’s mysterious sea,

You shall not bring us any better pearls.

If Allah be, He keeps His secret well;

What He hath hidden, who shall hope to find?

Shall God His secret to a maggot tell?

So since with all my passion and my skill,

The world’s mysterious meaning mocks me still,

Shall I not piously believe that I

Am kept in darkness by the heavenly will?

The Koran! well, come put me to the test—

Lovely old book in hideous error drest—

Believe me, I can quote the Koran too,

The unbeliever knows his Koran best.

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.

So I be written in the Book of Love,

I have no care about that book above;

Erase my name, or write it, as you please—

So I be written in the Book of Love.

Omar Khayyám


10:16 pm, by thischarmingman19815 notes

Notes
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