Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time hath but a little way
To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.


Myself when young didst eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by that same Door as in I went.


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.


Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.