The Grave of Omar Khayyam

They washed his body with a wine of gold,

And wrapped it round, to meet his last desire,

In leaves of vine, whose every pale-green spire

Tightened about him with an amorous hold;

And then they buried him in vineyard mould,

Where vintage hymns in summer dusk expire,

And where great vine-roots sucked all round him fire

For fiery cups, as ages o'er him rolled.

A lethargy creeps o'er us on this spot

Where bulbul warbles on oblivion's brink,

And all that man should live for is forgot.

The wine-girl floats towards us with her cup;

Or is it Azrael with darker drink?

Wake up, wake up; shake free thy soul; wake up!