Tomorrow! - why, tomorrow I may be myself with yesterday's seven thousand years.
Ah Love! Could you and I with him conspire to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire would we not shatter it to bite - and then re - mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire?
Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie, sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and - sans end.
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 enough!
And that inverted bow They call the sky, whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, lift not your hands to it for help - for it as impotently moves as you or I.
Oh thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin beset the road I was to wander in, thou wilt not with predestined evil round enmesh, and then impute my fall to sin.
Strange - is it not? - that of the myriads who before us passed the door of Darkness through, not one returns to tell us of the road which to discover we must travel too.
I sent my soul through the invisible, some letter of that after - life to spell, and by and by my soul returned ''I myself am Heaven and Hell.''
Drink! For you know not whence you came, nor why: drink! For you know not why you go, nor where.
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 this I know, whether the one true light kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite, one flash of it within the tavern caught better than in the temple lost outright.
There was the door to which I found no key, There was the veil through which I might not see.
Ah, take the cash, and let the credit go, nor heed the rumble of a distant drum!
Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire, and Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.
All this of pot and potter - tell me then, who is the potter, pray, and who the pot?
The bird of time has but a little way to flutter - and the bird is on the wing.
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.
You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a second marriage in my house; divorced old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.
One thing is certain and the rest is lies; the flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and saint, and heard great argument about it and about: but evermore came out by the same door where in I went.
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