The Wine-cup Is The Little Silver Well,

This Body Is A Tent Which For A Space Does The Pure Soul With Kingly Presence Grace; When He Departs, Comes The Tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes It, And Moves To A New Halting-place.

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.

Up From Earth's Centre Through The Seventh Gate Rose, And On The Throne Of Saturn Sate; And Many A Knot Unravel'd By The Road; But Not The Master-knot Of Human Fate.

Don't Cry Upon You Losses Don't Mesure Today With Tommorows Don't Trust To Passed And Coming Day Believe In Now - And Be Happy Today.

In Monasteries, Seminaries, Retreats And Synagogues, They Fear Hell And Seek Paradise. Those Who Know The Mysteries Of God Never Let That Seed Be Planted In Their Souls.