Was it of wine and all its purple glow,
Or roses when the seasons bade them blow,
That Omar Khayyam, he of Nashapur,
Sang in the centuries of long ago?
Or was the wine and blossom but a veil
To hide the doubts that fight and still prevail;
That life is but a rose that fades and dies,
And all the leaves are scattered to the gale;
That we but live a moment ere we die,
Let not the fleeting days go idly by;
But seize the cup and blossom ere they shrink,
And all the odours and the incense fly.
Or did the Preacher from another land
Reach forth, and touch him with a brother's hand,
Saying, 'I touch thee with my spirit, and lo!
Come thou, and be with us, and all our band.'
Or he who, in despair, once thought to fight
The Voice that answered from the whirlwind's might;
Did he too touch him from the mystic east,
And set his spirit yearning for the light?
We know not; rather unto human things,
He looked himself and, touching all the strings,
Sang till his fingers struck the lower chords—
The hope that wavers, and the doubt that stings.
Perchance he saw with eager, open eyes,
This web of human life with all its dyes,
Woven with hand unseen within the dark,
And no one sees the shuttle as it flies.
This web of human life, so interwrought,
With warp and woof and colours rarely sought;
We see it being woven and in our heart
There lives the hunger of all eager thought.
Did Omar fail to catch the world-wide light,
And failing, could not read the problem right,
But left us, groping for the single path
That leads us from the shadows of the night?
Not sure himself, and hearing no reply
To questions put with eager lip and eye,
He turned to watch the roses bud and blow,
And all the idle moments saunter by.