On Khayyam’s Quatrain

If this is but a sojourn here below
And all the gain we get is grief and woe:
Shall we starve ourselves of these gains
And let hunger fills us with ire and desire?

And if the riddles be left unsolved
And the Stygian caskets be full of rue:
Shall we stop solving trivial quandaries
And let one start admiring the unknown?

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