رباعيات خيام

by Omar Khayyám

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

There was the Door to which I found no Key: There was the Veil through which I could not see: Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.