So I Be Written In

Come, Fill The Cup, And In The Fire Of Spring The Winter Garment Of Repentance Fling: The Bird Of Time Has But A Little Way To Fly-and Lo! The Bird Is On The Wing.

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 Answer'd: 'i Myself Am Heav'n And Hell

And That Inverted Bowl They Call The Sky, Whereunder Crawling Cooped We Live And Die, Lift Not Your Hands To It For Help-for It As Impotently Moves As You Or I

Oh, The Brave Music Of A Distant Drum!

Give Me A Flagon Of Red Wine, A Book Of Verses, A Loaf Of Bread, And A Little Idleness. If With Such Store I Might Sit By Thy Dear Side In Some Lonely Place, I Should Deem Myself Happier Than A King In His Kingdom.