The Potter, having labor’d long and sore In many a Wheel, turns out at last no more Than a broken Pot, which he throws away, And then begins his work again as before.
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"I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return'd to me, And evermore my Soul said, 'I myself am Heav'n and Hell.'"
"And still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water builds: Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!"
"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness – Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!"
"Why, all the Saints and Sages who discussed Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scattered, and their Mouths are stopped with Dust."
"Ere the Earth was, or the skies were, I Had a Soul, and with it my desire To drink the Wine of Life, and never cease To drain the Cup until it was quite dry."
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