A Hair perhaps divides the False and True.

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help-for it As impotently moves as you or I

Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires.