The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
And much as Wine has played the Infidel, And robbed me of my Robe of Honor Well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
There was the Door to which I found no key; There was the Veil through which I might see.
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes.
If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple.
A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.
Strange, is it not? That of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road Which to discover we must travel too.
Think then you are Today what Yesterday you were – Tomorrow you shall not be less.