The Moving Finger Writes; And Having Writ,

Heaven But The Vision Of Fulfilled Desire, And Hell The Shadow From A Soul On Fire.

Better Be Jocund With The Fruitful Grape Than Sadden After None, Or Bitter, Fruit.

Dead Yesterdays And Unborn Tomorrows, Why Fret About It, If Today Be Sweet.

Here's To The Man Who Owns The Land That Bears The Grapes That Makes The Wine That Tastes As Good As This Does.

A Moment's Halt-a Momentary Taste Of Being From The Well Amid The Waste- And, Lo! The Phantom Caravan Has Reach'd The Nothing It Set Out From. Oh, Make Haste!