Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went.
Strange – is it not? – that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through Not one returns to tell us of the road Which to discover we must travel too.
Ah love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire Would not we shatter it to bits – and then Re-mold it nearer to the heart’s desire!
Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go nor where.
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.
I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
One thing is certain and the rest is lies The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
There was the Door to which I found no key There was the Veil through which I might not see.
Dust into dust and under dust to lie Sans wine sans song sans singer and – sans end.
Heav’n but the Vision of fulfill’d Desire And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire.
Ah Love! could you and I with him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire Would we not shatter it to bits – and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?
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.
Ah take the Cash and let the Credit go Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
There was the door to which I found no key There was the veil through which 1 might not see.
A book of Verses underneath the Bough A Jug of Wine a Loaf of Bread – and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness – Oh Wilderness were Paradise enow!
All this of Pot and Potter – Tell me then Who is the Potter pray and who the Pot?
You know my friends with what a brave carouse I made a second marriage in my house Divorced old barren reason from my bed And took the daughter of the vine to spouse.
0 thou who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the road I was to wander in Thou wilt not with predestin’d evil round Enmesh and then impute my fall to sin.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky Whereunder crawling coop’d we live and die Lift not your hands to it for help – for it As impotently moves as you or I.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible Some letter of that After-life to spell And by and by my Soul returned to me And answered “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell.”
Yet Ah that Spring should vanish with the Rose. That Youth’s sweetscented manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the branches sang Ah whence and whither flown again who knows?
The bird of time has but a little way To flutter – and the bird is on the wing.
Tomorrow! – Why tomorrow I may be Myself with yesterday’s sev’n thousand years.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes – or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two – is gone.
The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.
Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.
You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; favored old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.