Omar Khayyam and Willam Blake - Story of Life.

Life’s Quatrains

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread—and Thou,

Beside me singing in the Wilderness—

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! 

In the potter’s workroom, shadowed by the wheel,

I pondered, watching how the Master made

Handles and covers for his jugs and pitchers

From clay—from hands of kings, from beggars’ feet. 

Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise

To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;

One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;

The Flower that once has blown for ever dies

William Blake Style

O Winter! Bar thine adamantine doors:

The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark

Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs

Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep

Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathed

In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;

For he hath rear’d his scepter o’er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings

To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks:

He withers all in silence, and in his hand

Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner

Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal’st

With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster

Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.