LXXI.

 The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
 Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
   Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
 Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.


LXXII.

 And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
 Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
   Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
 As impotently moves as you or I.


LXXIII.

 With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
 And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
   And the first Morning of Creation wrote
 What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.


LXXIV.

 YESTERDAY This Day's Madness did prepare;
 TO-MORROW's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
   Drink! for you not know whence you came, nor why:
 Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.


LXXV.

 I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
 Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
   Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
 In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.