LXI.

 Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
 Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
   A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
 And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?


LXII.

 I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
 Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
   Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
 To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!


LXIII.

 Of threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
 One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
   One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
 The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.


LXIV.

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


LXV.

 The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
 Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
   Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
 They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.