The Moving Finger Writes; And Having Writ,

Alas, That Spring Should Vanish With The Rose! That Youths Sweet-scented Manuscript Should Close!

We Are Thinking About Bad Only Those Who Are Worse Than We Are, And Those Who Are Better Than Us ... I'm Just Not Up To Us ... One Does Not Follow It Than Smell Roses. Another Of The Bitter Herbs Will Produce Honey. Give Bread To One - Will Remember Forever. Another Life Donation - Do Not Understand.

I Sent My Soul Through The Invisible, Some Letter Of That After-life To Spell: And By And By My Soul Return'd To Me, And Answer'd: 'i Myself Am Heav'n And Hell

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!

And That Inverted Bowl 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