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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 coop't we live and die,

Lift not thy hands to It for help — for It

Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor

Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door

You gaze To-day, while You are You — how then

To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd

Of the Two Worlds so learnedly — are thrust

Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn

Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

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."

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green

Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean —

Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows

From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

You've got to have something to eat and a little love in your life before you can hold still for any damn body's sermon on how to behave. Everything I am and everything I want out of life goes smack back to that.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wilderness —

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Somebody once said we never know what is enough until we know what's more than enough.

I'm always making a comeback but nobody ever tells me where I've been.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

Before we too into the Dust Descend;

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and — sans End!

"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"—think some:

Others — "How blest the Paradise to come!"

Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest;

Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!