Ah, Love, could You and I with him conspire

Ah, Love, could You and I with him conspire To Fix this Sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would we not take it all apart, and then Remodel with no danger of Back-Fire?

Ah, make the most of Time we yet may spend Before we too, into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust. Under the Car to lie, Sans Coat, sans Breath, sans Temper, and—sans Friend!

And that Reviving Herb, whose Tender Green Upon the Julep Cup is sometimes seen, Ah, interview it lightly, for you know You’ll need your Wits to manage your Machine.

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Lamps that shed A steady Searchlight on our Path ahead; To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday’s Seven Thousand Dead.