And those who husbanded the Golden Grain, And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain, Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
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"Earth then an endless Tabernacle drew Of Him whose coming none can tell, nor who, To fill the Bowl where now we pour the Wine, Before we too into the Dust shall strew."
"We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;"
"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."
"The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on."
"Another and another Cup to drown The Memory of this Impertinence!"
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