Give Me A Flagon Of Red Wine,

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.

A Moment's Halt-a Momentary Taste Of Being From The Well Amid The Waste- And, Lo! The Phantom Caravan Has Reach'd The Nothing It Set Out From. Oh, Make Haste!

You Know How Little While We Have To Stay, And, Once Departed, May Return No More.

A Hair Divides What Is False And True.

When You Are So Full Of Sorrow That You Can't Walk, Can't Cry Anymore, Think About The Green Foliage That Sparkles After The Rain. When The Daylight Exhausts You, When You Hope A Final Night Will Cover The World, Think About The Awakening Of A Young Child.