In a Copy of Omar Khayyam
              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.
              Fit rosary for a queen, in shape and hue,
              When Contemplation tells her pensive beads
              Of mortal thoughts, forever old and new.
              Fit for a queen? Why, surely then for you!
              The moral? Where Doubt’s eddies toss and twirl
              Faith’s slender shallop till her footing reel,
              Plunge: if you find not peace beneath the whirl,
              Groping, you may like Omar grasp a pearl.