These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred, Each softly lucent as a rounded moon; The diver Omar plucked them from their bed, FitzGerald strung them on an English thread.
The wisest man could ask no more of Fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the Manyhonored by the Few; To count as naught in World or Church or State; But inwardly in secret to be great.
But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet Lessen like sound of friends departing feet; And Death is beautiful as feet of friend Coming with welcome at our journeys end.