THE PURPLE FRUIT OF OMAR KHAYYAM

Regret! for I, within the dead of Night,

Have eaten Plums you’d saved for your Delight.

 And Lo! away I slink, and leave this note:

So cold were they, so sweet, so right.

Pacing the Kitchen as you slept in Bed

I paused: a Voice within my Stomach said

 “Refresh, my hungry one, and fill me up

Before Life’s Ways leave you too long unfed!”

And, as my Pangs grew, the Voice within me cried,

And yea, it shouted— “Ope thy Fridge Door wide!

 You know which Shelf holds Dish of Tupperware,

And what Delights your tongue shall meet inside.”

Come, fill ye up, then in thy Rapture sweet

A post-Meal Garment of Repentance meet:

 The Owl of Opportunity has but inches

To go—and Lo! rises already to its Feet.

There with a Dish of Plums beside the Stove,

A Glass of Beer, a Magazine—ah, Love!

 By your quiet snoring in the other Room—

The Kitchen was as Heaven far above.

O! my Beloved, fill your Heart with Tears

TO-DAY of my Regrets and guilty Fears—

 TO-MORROW?— Why, To-morrow may not come

And I’d regret those Plums not eaten all my Years.

Ah, drain the Dish:—it foots not to repeat

The Provenance of this or that cool Treat:

 Unpicked LAST WEEK, gone off TO-MORROW,

Why sweat it, if TO-DAY be sweet!

In Vision, by the Westinghouse struck dumb,

Beheld I—in the Dusk a Shape did come,

 Bearing a dish in Angel’s Hands; and

He urged me sample it; and ’twas—a Plum!

The Munching Jawbone chews; and having chawed,

Gulps down: nor all thy Remorse, nor God,

 Shall lure it back to undo half a Bite,

Nor all my Tears wash back a morsel of the wad.

Ah, Light of open’d Door who shine’st e’er bright,

Past Jugs of Milk, they meet my Sight:

 How oft hereafter, rising shall you look
Through this same Fridge for Plums and find—no Bite!

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