We Are In Truth But Pieces On

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.

This Clay, So Strong Of Heart, Of Sense So Fine,surely Such Clay Is More Than Half Divine--'tis Only Fools Speak Evil Of The Clay,the Very Stars Are Made Of Clay Like Mine.

And This I Know; Whether The One True Light Kindle To Love, Or Wrath Consume Me Quite, One Flash Of It Within The Tavern Caught Better Than In The Temple Lost Outright.

Oh! My Beloved! Fill The Cup, That Clears To-day Of Past Regrets And Future Fears.

I Hide My Grief, Just Like The Blessed Birds Hide Themselves When They Are Preparing To Die, My Love.