And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,

End in the Nothing all Things end in— Yes—

   Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what

Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,

With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:

   And when the Angel with his darker Draught

Draws up to Thee—take that, and do not shrink.

’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.

The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,

But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;

   And He that toss’d Thee down into the Field,

He knows about it all—HE knows—HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

   Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,

Whereunder crawling coopt we live and die,

   Lift not thy hands to It for help—for It