Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee;

If only you were half so good as he!

He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness,

Great-hearted mirth, and kind adultery.

But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue,

The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,

The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,

And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.

(Le Gallienne-oversettelsen)

In my left hand I hold the Koran tight,

And grasp the wine-cup firmly in my right--

Thus do I stand beneath the eye of heaven,

Not quite a saint, nor yet a sinner quite.

(Le Gallienne-oversettelsen)

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain - This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies -
The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

How sad to be a woman--not to know

Aught of the glory of this breast of snow,

All unconcerned to comb this mighty hair;

To be a woman and yet never know!

Were I a woman, I would all day long

Sing my own beauty in some holy song,

Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid,

And say "I am a woman!" all day long.

(Le Gallienne-oversettelsen)