Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

Whether we wake or we sleep, Whether we carol or weep, The Sun with his Planets in chime, Marketh the going of Time.

I am all for the short and merry life.

The King in a carriage may ride, And the Beggar may crawl at his side; But in the general race, They are traveling all the same pace.

If you can prove to me that one miracle took place, I will believe that he is a just God who damned us all because a woman ate an apple

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — And Wilderness is Paradise enow.