To Be Free Of Belief And Unbelief

We Are In Truth But Pieces On This Chess Board Of Life, Which In The End We Leave, Only To Drop One By One Into The Grave Of Nothingness.

Give Me A Flagon Of Red Wine, A Book Of Verses, A Loaf Of Bread, And A Little Idleness. If With Such Store I Might Sit By Thy Dear Side In Some Lonely Place, I Should Deem Myself Happier Than A King In His Kingdom.

The Thoughtful Soul To Solitude Retires.

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.

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.