A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread-and thou.
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
There was the Door to which I found no key; There was the Veil through which I might see.
Taste is the feminine of genius.
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 of it.