To Rage, To Lust, To Write To,

Love Is A Growing, Or Full Constant Light; And His First Minute, After Noon, Is Night.

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?

Religion Is Not A Melancholy, The Spirit Of God Is Not A Damper.

Old Grandsires Talk Of Yesterday With Sorrow, And For Our Children We Reserve Tomorrow.