Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

Everything we look upon is blest.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made.

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.