A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
          A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
          Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
          Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!…
 

          There was a Door to which I found no Key:
          There was a Veil past which I could not see:
          Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE
          There seemed--and then no more of THEE and ME…
 

          Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
          Before we too into the Dust Descend;
          Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
          Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and--sans End!..
 

          The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
          Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
          Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
          Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it…

          And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
          Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
          Lift not thy hands to IT for help--for It
          Rolls impotently on as Thou or I…