I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
A Moments Halta momentary taste Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste And, Lo! the phantom Caravan has reachd The NOTHING it set out from. Oh, make haste!
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 this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite, One Flash of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright.
And when like her, O Sáki, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatterd on the Grass, And in your blissful errand reach the spot Where I made Oneturn down an empty Glass.