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Sonnets of the Wingless Hours

By Eugene Lee-Hamilton
  
  

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THE GRAVE OF OMAR KHAYYÁM.
  
  


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THE GRAVE OF OMAR KHAYYÁM.

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's dusk expire,
And where great vine-roots sucked all round him fire
For fiery cups, as ages o'er him roll'd.
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!