Awake, My Little Ones, And Fill The

To-day Is Thine To Spend, But Not To-morrow; Counting On Morrows Breedeth Bankrupt Sorrow: O Squander Not This Breath That Heaven Hath Lent Thee; Make Not Too Sure Another Breath To Borrow.

Dust Into Dust, And Under Dust To Lie, Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, And-sans End!

The Wine-cup Is The Little Silver Well, Where Truth, If Truth There Be, Doth Dwell.

Oh! My Beloved! Fill The Cup, That Clears To-day Of Past Regrets And Future Fears.

The Stars Are Setting And The Caravan Starts For The Dawn Of Nothing-oh, Make Haste!