This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.
The wine-cup is the little silver well, Where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell.
My friend, let's not think of tomorrow, but let's enjoy this fleeting moment of life.
Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire, and Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.
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.