A book of verses underneath the bough
A flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me
Singing in the wilderness
And wilderness is paradise enow
I sent my soul flying through the void
Some word of that after-life to spell
And by and by my soul returned to me
And answered; I, myself am heaven and hell
The moving finger writes and, having writ moves on
Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line
Nor all thy tears
Wash out a word of it
Oh threats of hell and hopes of paradise
One thing is certain this life flies
One thing is certain and the rest is lies
The flower that once has bloomed forever dies