To Be Free Of Belief And Unbelief

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

Come, Fill The Cup, And In The Fire Of Spring The Winter Garment Of Repentance Fling: The Bird Of Time Has But A Little Way To Fly-and Lo! The Bird Is On The Wing.

Better Be Jocund With The Fruitful Grape Than Sadden After None, Or Bitter, Fruit.

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

Yes, The First Morning Of Creation Wrote What The Last Dawn Of Reckoning Shall Read.