A book of verses underneath the bough A flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me Singing in the wilderness And wilderness is paradise enow I sent my soul flying through the void Some word of that after-life to spell And by and by my soul returned to me And answered; I, myself am heaven and hell The moving finger writes and, having writ moves on Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line Nor all thy tears Wash out a word of it Oh threats of hell and hopes of paradise One thing is certain this life flies One thing is certain and the rest is lies The flower that once has bloomed forever dies