clears
To-day of past regret and future fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow we may be
Ourselves with Yesterday's sev'n thousand Years._"

"No Cup there is to bring oblivion
More during than Regret and Fear--no, none!
For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and be
Marah before to-morrow's Sands have run."

"_Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door where in I went._"

"The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither,
Reason become a Prison where may wither
From sunless eyes the Infinite, from hearts
All Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither."

"_Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unravelled by the Road--
But not the Master-knot of Human fate._"

"The Master-knot knows but the Master-hand
That scattered Saturn and his countless Band
Like seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air:
The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned."

"_Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust aside
And naked on the air of Heaven ride,
Wer't not a shame--wer't not a shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?_"

"No, for a day bound in this Dust may teach
More of the Saki's Mind than we can reach
Through aeons mounting still from Sky to Sky--
May open through all Mystery a breach."

"_You speak as if Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured
Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour._"

"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?"

"_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 o