“Strange, is it not? that of the myriads whoBefore us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road,Which to discover we must travel too.”

“Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.”

“Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,Before we too into Dust descend;Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and - sans End!”

“Tis all a Checkerboard of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and stays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.”

“Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the WiseTo talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;The Flower that once blown for ever dies.”

“One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;/The Flower that once has blown forever dies.”

“If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow,We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;In all the universe we have no place.Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.If, when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;We know to-day what wounds are, have no fear,Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.”