Fools, your reward is neither here nor there.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

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.

Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee;If only you were half so good as he!He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness,Great-hearted mirth, and kind adultery.But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue,The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.

I wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell.

Oh! My beloved! fill the cup, that clears to-day of past regrets and future fears.

The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.