It Was Roses, Roses, All

No Work Begun Shall Ever Pause For Death.

And Let Them Pass, As They Will Too Soon, With The Bean-flowers' Boon, And The Blackbird's Tune, And May, And June!

I Know What I Want And What I Might Gain, And Yet, How Profitless To Know.

'tis Well Averred, A Scientific Faith's Absurd.

All Good Things Are Ours, Nor Soul Helps Flesh More, Now, Than Flesh Helps Soul!