The Thoughtful Soul To Solitude Retires.

The Grape That Can With Logic Absolute The Two-and-seventy Jarring Sects Confute: The Sovereign Alchemist That In A Trice Life's Leaden Metal Into Gold Transmute.

But Helpless Pieces Of The Game He Plays Upon This Checker-board Of Nights And Days; Hither And Thither Moves, And Checks, And Slays, And One By One Back In The Closet Lays.

Oh, The Brave Music Of A Distant Drum!

As Far As You Can Avoid It, Do Not Give Grief To Anyone. Never Inflict Your Rage On Another. If You Hope For Eternal Rest, Feel The Pain Yourself; But Don’t Hurt Others.

So When That Angel Of The Darker Drink, At Last Shall Find You By The River-brink, And, Offering His Cup, Invite Your Soul Forth To Your Lips To Quaff-you Shall Not Shrink.