My Rubaiyat, XLIX–LXXII

Draughts of pure air, bright beams of light Are free gifts coming from the skies, Why should sad mothers, children frail In dark and gruesome hovels pine, Freeze and starve, and with thirsty eyes See mirth with song and dance glide by.

And hunger is a fearful thing. It dwarfs the better part in man, Naught but a withered husk it leaves Of some thing that should live and breathe. All nobler impulses turn ghosts, Haunting waste places of the mind.

It lifts the knife to deadly thrusts, It turns to brutes all those it sways, It presses torches into fists, And peaceful men turn to revolt. We stand at brinks of volcanoes Yet smilingly dot them with homes.

What can we do, how can we help! The poor can never help the poor, The rich but scatter alms derived From what is due the common herd. The weed plots are crowded thick, Who cuts a path for weary feet!

Oh, the helplessness of the aged, Of the needy, sick, and lonely. Can you explain why they suffer, Must some lose all while others thrive? Can no one wear a thornless crown Without some hurt to human kind?

Oh, these homes of blighted reason, Who would not weep at sights like these. Few years ago they were like us, They worked and played, they loved and laughed, And now—beasts without reason; Where err their erstwhile joys and hopes!

And those who lurk in deadly sin, Whose book of life reads blood and gold, Thieves, bandits, outcasts, vagrom folks, Eternal victims of the law, Who cannot change, who have no chance To wash their grimy hands from crime.

They know not what to do on earth, Their cup is filled with hate and lust. None has taught them. Will you teach them? Have you a larger soul than they? You have drawn a lucky number, For them gay fortune went astray.

In foolish kindness some aspire To staunch the ever-aching wound, And so they teach, and so they preach. How vain to think that your idea May cure the vanity of things, ’Tis shuttlecock and battledore.

How can I give right directions When I am a wanderer myself! Onward I stroll and ever on In my own way courting the sun And fashioning Arcadia Of passing winds and flying clouds.

For my happiness cannot be yours; In humble ecstasy I could live In a hill-town, among roses, With robins feasting at my table, While woods and fields, valleys and streams Around would be my promised land.

You might not like such simple fare, For you the winds may blow too mild— I cannot tread your well-paved roads Though verdant they may seem to you. Each path leads to some point of view, What you like best, is best for you.

Sunshine we want but also shadows, Each joy demands its note of pain, Each cheek must know the fall of tears That many dream-swept hopes were vain. Sorrow digs up unknown treasures Within the caverns of the mind.

Have you ever lost a treasure More precious far than gold or health! Trailed a white hearse with faltering steps That bore your dearest dream away, Sat at the deathbed of your mother. Or closed a friend’s dull staring eyes!

You know, the frost that chills the core, That all we love is naught but clay. Silent a boat glides o’er the Styx, Yet it leaves light within its wake; As weary plains grow green with rain The soul expands in tear-starred nights.

Tears furrow thought, they strengthen will, Cleanse the foul places of the mind, Yield soothing light to ship-wrecked hearts. Happy those who, sorrow-driven, Bright moments wrest from waves of pain And sail their barks to peaceful ports.

This is the true philosophy, Every child may learn the lesson— Blaze your own trail the best you can Without trespassing foreign ground; Smile, play, and sing, and be alive To every blow of circumstance.

To meet the hours as they come, Salute the days as they pass by, To bend your neck to no one’s yoke, To be full master of yourself, To do a kindness when you can— That is the happiness of life.

To help a friend in dire needs, To speak a word to the oppressed, To think of things that help mankind, To scatter joy, unasked, unblessed— For knowing minds divine the rest— That is the happiness of life.

Yes, life is vain, life is empty, But why repeat a sad refrain, This echo of Khayyam’s quatrains, As long as each day has a morrow, As long as orchards bloom again, And empty cups may be refilled.

Though we recall that days are short, Let’s make the passing moments hum. Bees do murmur in the heather, Does sundew exist only for them! A little joy today seems fairer Than the brightest strongholds of Spain.

There are some joys all may attain, To spouse some cause however slight, To be a host to loyal friends, To found some freeholds of your own, Where mothers laugh and children romp, And fare in health and fragrance there.

Some day religion unbiased May sponsor stern needs of the day, Life grow untrammeled and joyous Without the black magic of law. Science and art prove their uses And quicken the heart-beats of all.

You, people, come out of your dreams, Woo fortune and you may win her, Fill the world with acts of good cheer, Forget grey cares and ragged toil, Face bravely the swell and the gale And strike out for headlands unknown.