The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

A hair divides what is false and true.

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

Oh, the brave Music of a distant drum!

And that inverted bowl we call The Sky, where under crawling coop't we live and die, lift not thy hands to It for help -- for it rolls impotently on as thou or I.