Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

For in and out, above, about, below, / Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, / Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, / Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

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.

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape / Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

The Stars are setting and the Caravan / Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; /The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

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

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor . why: / Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, / The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

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.