The guardian of the store-house of the wind
Cares nothing if the widow's lantern dies."

These, however, are relieved by that which makes a friend of fate--

"To God's beloved even the dark hour
Shines as the morning glory after rain.
Except by Allah's grace thou hast no power
Nor strength of arm such rapture to attain."

It was against this sort of poetry that Omar Kayyám revolted. He had not
any proof of such spiritual assurances, and he did not want that of
which he had no proof. He understood the material world around him, both
in its joy and sorrow, and emphatically he did not understand any other
world. He became a sort of Marlowe's Faust before his time, and
protested against the vague spirituality of the Súfis by an assertion of
what may be called a brilliant animalism. He loved beauty as much as
they did, and there is an oriental splendour about all his work, albeit
an earthly splendour. He became, accordingly, an audacious epicurean who
"failed to find any world but this," and set himself to make the best of
what he found. His was not an exorbitant ambition nor a fiery passion of
any kind. The bitterness and cynicism of it all remind us of the
inscription upon Sardanapalus' tomb--"Eat, drink, play, the rest is not
worth the snap of a finger." Drinking-cups have been discovered with
such inscriptions on them--"The future is utterly useless, make the most
of to-day,"--and Omar's poetry is full both of the cups and the
inscription.

The French interpreter, Nicolas, has indeed spiritualised his work. In
his view, when Omar raves about wine, he really means God; when he