"Bubbles we are, pricked by the point of Death.

But, in each bubble, may there be no Breath

That lifts it and at last to Freedom flies,

And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth?"

"A moment's halt—a momentary taste

Of Being from the Well amid the Waste—

And Lo—the phantom Caravan has reached

The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!"

"And yet it should be—it should be that we

Who drink shall drink of Immortality.

The Master of the Well has much to spare:

Will He say, 'Taste'—then shall we no more be?"

[Pg 10]

"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 were it other, might we not erase

The Letter of some Sorrow in whose place

No truer sounding, we should fail to spell

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