AUDIO     

Come . . .
And D's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to' incarnadine.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.

Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

                          ..... The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Come . . .