It is as if Omar were
translating Horace:
"W_aste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit_
0_f This and That endeavor and dispute;_
B_etter be jocund with the fruitful Grape_
T_han sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit._
"A_h! fill the Cup: what boots it to repeat_
H_ow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:_
U_nborn tomorrow, and dead yesterday,_
W_hy fret about them if today be sweet!"_
The goods of existence must be enjoyed here and now, or never, for all
must be left behind. What once is enjoyed is forever our very own. Happy
is the man who can say, at each day's close, "I have lived!" The day is
his, and cannot be recalled. Let Jove overcast with black cloud the
heavens of to-morrow, or let him make it bright with clear sunshine,--as
he pleases; what the flying hour of to-day has already given us he never
can revoke. Life is a stream, now gliding peacefully onward in
mid-channel to the Tuscan sea, now tumbling upon its swirling bosom the
wreckage of flood and storm. The pitiful human being on its banks, ever
looking with greedy expectation up the stream, or with vain regret at
what is past, is left at last with nothing at all.
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