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All of his mother seemed to him for just the one instant which followed on his entrance to be emptied, as if the woman he had always known loving, satirical, clever, kind, observant had been poured away. The effect upon him was one of indescribable, almost of horrible, dreariness. Omar Khayyam, his mother's black pug, was not in the room as usual, stretched out before the fire.
A work widely different from either of these, Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, shared and has probably exceeded their popularity for similar reasons.
This year, Burton, emulous of fame as an original poet, published The Kasidah of Haji Abdu El-Yezdi, A Lay of the Higher Law, which treats of the great questions of Life, Death and Immortality, and has certain resemblances to that brilliant poem which is the actual father of it, Edward FitzGerald's rendering of The Rubaiyat of Oman Khayyam.
If the sky is cloudy the eclipse will take place in the drill shed." Two brothers were being entertained by a rich friend. As ill luck would have it, the talk drifted away from ordinary topics. "Do you like Omar Khayyam?" thoughtlessly asked the host, trying to make conversation. The elder brother plunged heroically into the breach. "Pretty well," he said, "but I prefer Chianti."
When too many tiresome people dine here in the evening or when they worry me from home I take a column. But generally half a column's enough good tough Persian roots, and no nonsense. Oh! of course I can read Hafiz and Omar Khayyam, and all that kind of thing. But that's the whipped cream. That don't count. What one wants is something to set one's teeth in. Latin verse will do.
'I hardly ever use any. I don't care for scent. 'But lately you have, he insisted. 'What is it? I think I like it. 'It's got a silly name. It's called Omar Khayyam. 'I thought it was Oriental. I think you're Oriental, Edith. Though you're so fair and English-looking. How do you account for it? 'I can't think, said Edith. 'Perhaps you're a fair Circassian, said he.
He was a tutor of Balliol, and lectured on Aristotle, and of him eager youth said, in the words of Omar Khayyam, "He knows! he knows!" What was it that Mr. Green knew? Where was the secret? John and Aristotle alike into a terminology which we then believed to be Hegelian. Hegel we knew, not in the original German, but in lectures and in translations.
She considered. "Not a magazine, not La Vie Parisienne, though we might perhaps look at the pictures part of the time. I know! Stop! I'll get it," She ran out and returned with a little leather-covered book. "Read it right through, Peter," she said. "I've read it heaps of times, but I want to hear it again to-day. Do you mind?" "Omar Khayyám!" exclaimed Peter. "Good idea!
And as far as education was concerned he felt that if he was not quite so brushed up on his A B C's as he was on minding his P's and Q's the result would not be half bad. Unconsciously his attitude toward the world was a composite of the philosophy of Marcus Aurelius, the cynical wisdom of Omar Khayyam, and plain and not to be duplicated Yankee pep.
He had no religion, having studied all. He was a pagan beyond redemption, though his wife maintained that he was a Catholic. Unfortunately, for her, his masterpiece refutes her overwhelmingly. He wrote the most remarkable poem of the last forty years, one that is to be classed only with Tennyson's "In Memoriam" and the "Rubaiyat" of Omar Khayyam.
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