The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

XXXVII. For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day, I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all obliterated Tongue It murmur'd -- "Gently, Brother, gently, pray!" XXXVIII. And has not such a Story from of Old Down Man's successive generations roll'd Of such a clod of saturated Earth Cast by the Maker into Human mould? XXXIX. Ah, fill the Cup: -- what boots it to repeat How Time is slipping underneath our Feet: Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday, Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!

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