Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire, and Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!
Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet.
I can’t reveal the mystery to either saint or sinner; I can’t state at length what I’ve said curtly; I achieve an altered state that I can’t explain; I have a secret that I cannot share.
Yes, the first morning of creation wrote what the last dawn of reckoning shall read.
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.