Cipher Cracking 2013/Rubaiyat Plaintext
This page contains a plaintext edited version of the edition of the Rubaiyat used at the time, which was used for the OTP decrpytions. It also contains a link to a .txt of this plaintext document and a document containing the list of decrpyts given by the OTP software for review.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Omar Khayyam The Poet-Astronomer of Persia died in A.D. 1123. His verses are famous for their supreme beauty and their ever popular philosophy of life. Edward Fitzgerald Born in 1809 and died in 1883. The rhythm and melody of his translation have given it a lasting place in English literature.
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light Dreaming when Dawns Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Lifes Liquor in its Cup be dry And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted Open then the Door! You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose, And Jamshyds Sevn-ringd Cup where no one knows; But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows And Davids Lips are lockt; but in divine Highpiping Pehlevi, with Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine! the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of hers tincarnadine Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing And look a thousand Blossoms with the Day Woke and a thousand scatterd into Clay: And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot: Let Rustum lay about him as he will, Or Hatim Tai cry Supperheed them not With me along some Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known, And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness And Wilderness is Paradise enow How sweet is mortal Sovranty! think some: Others How blest the Paradise to come! Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum! Look to the Rose that blows about us Lo, Laughing, she says, into the World I blow: At once the silken Tassel of my Purse Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw The Wordly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes or its prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Deserts dusty Face Lighting a little Hour or two is gone And those who husbanded the Golden Grain, And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain, Alike to no such aureate Earth are turnd As, buried once, Men want dug up again Think, in this batterd Caravanserai Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahram, that great Hunter the Wild Ass Stamps oer his Head, and he lies fast asleep I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden den wears Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head And this delightful Herb whose tender Green Fledges the Rivers Lip on which we lean Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears Today of past Regrets and future Fears tomorow? Why, Tomorrow I may be Myself with Yesterdays Sevn Thousand Years Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to Rest And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend, ourselves to make a Couch for whom? Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer Dust into Dust, and under and sans End! Alike for those who for Today prepare, And those that after a Tomorrow stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There! Why, all the Saints and Sages who discussd Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scatterd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same Door as in I went With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with my own hand labourd it to grow: And this was all the Harvest that I reapd I came like Water, and like Wind I go Into this Universe, and why not knowing, Nor whence, like Water willy nilly flowing: And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not whither, willy nilly blowing What, without asking, hither hurried whence? And, without asking, whither hurried hence? Another and another Cup to drown The Memory of this Impertinence! Up from Earths Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many Knots unraveld by the Road; But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate There was a Door to which I found no Key: There was a Veil past which I could not see: Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE There seemd and then no more of THEE and ME Then to the rolling Heav n itself I cried, Asking, What Lamp had Destiny to guide Her little Children stumbling in the Dark? And A blind Understanding! Heavn replied Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn My Lip the Secret Well of Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmurd While you live Drink! for once dead you never shall return I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answerd, once did live, And merrymake; and the cold Lip I kissd How many Kisses might it take and give! For in the Marketplace, one Dusk of Day, I watchd the Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all obliterated Tongue It murmurd Gently, Brother, gently, pray! Ah, fill the Cup: what boots It to repeat How Time is slipping underneath our Feet: Unborn Tomorrow, and dead yesterday, Why fret about them if Today be sweet! One Moment in Annihilations Waste, One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing Oh, make haste! How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute? Better be merry with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit you know, my Friends, how long since in my House For a new Marriage I did make Carouse: Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse For is and is not though with Rule and Line, And Up And Down without, I could define, I yet in all I only ~ared to know, Was never deep in anything but Wine And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and twas the Grape! The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two and Seventy jarring Sects confute: The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice Lifets leaden Metal into Gold transmute The mighty Mahmud, the victorious Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that in fest the Soul Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me The Quarrel of the Universe let be: And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht, Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee For in and out, above, about, below, Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow show, Playd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in the Nothing all Things end in Yes Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what Thou shalt be Nothing Thou shalt not be less While the Rose blows along the River Brink, With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink: And when the Angel with his darker Draught Draws up to Thee take that, and do not shrink Tis all a Chequerboard of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes; And He that tossd Thee down into the Field, He knows about it all HE knows HE knows! 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 And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coopt we live and die, Lift not thy hands to It for help for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I With Earths first Clay They did the Last Mans knead, And then of the Last Harvest sowd the Seed: Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read I tell Thee this When, starting from the Goal, Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal Of Heavn Parwin and Mushtara they flung, In my predestind Plot of Dust and Soul The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about If clings my Being let the Sufi flout; Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite, One glimpse of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestination round Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin? Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And who with Eden didst devise the Snake; For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blackend, Mans Forgiveness give and take! Listen again One Evening at the Close Of Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose, In that old Potters Shop I stood alone With the clay Population round in Rows And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot Some could articulate, while others not: And suddenly one more impatient cried Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot? Then said another Surely not in vain My Substance from the common Earth was taen, That He who subtly wrought me into Shape Should stamp me back to common Earth again Another said Why, neer a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy; Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy! None answerd this; but after Silence spake A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: They sneer at me for leaning all awry; What did the Hand then of the Potter shake? Said one Folks of a surly Tapster tell, And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell; They talk of some strict Testing of us Pish! Hes a Good Fellow, and twill all be well Then said another with a long drawn Sigh, My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry: But, fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and bye! So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, One spied the little Crescent all were seeking: And then they joggd each other, Brother! Brother! Hark to the Porters Shoulder knot acreaking! Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And in a Windingsheet of Vine leaf wrapt, So bury me by some sweet Garden side That evn my buried Ashes such a Snare Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air, As not a True Believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long Have done my Credit in Mens Eye much wrong: Have drownd my Honour in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose in hand My thread bare Penitence apieces tore And much as Wine has playd the Infidel, And robbd me of my Robe of Honour well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the Goods they sell Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet scented Manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows! Ah Love! could Thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits and then Re mould it nearer to the Hearts Desire! Ah, Moon of my Delight who knowst no wane, The Moon of Heavn is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me in vain! And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass Among the Guests Star scatterd on the Grass, And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot Where I made one turn down an empty Glass! Tamam shud