I cannot help it — were it in my power,
I would forsake my sins this very hour,
Forsake the Rose, and bid the Vine good-bye,
Kiss my last kiss — if it were in my power.
Sweet is rose-ruddy wine in goblets gay,
And sweet are lute and harp and roundelay;
But for the zealot who disdains the cup,
’Tis sweet when he is twenty leagues away!
This is no way my learnèd life to use!
Tell me a better, then, that I may choose.
Shall I, for some remote imagined gain
My precious little hour of living lose?
"Omar Khayyam"