My Friend, Let's Not Think Of Tomorrow,

Dead Yesterdays And Unborn Tomorrows, Why Fret About It, If Today Be Sweet.

Come, Fill The Cup, And In The Fire Of Spring The Winter Garment Of Repentance Fling: The Bird Of Time Has But A Little Way To Fly-and Lo! The Bird Is On The Wing.

So When That Angel Of The Darker Drink, At Last Shall Find You By The River-brink, And, Offering His Cup, Invite Your Soul Forth To Your Lips To Quaff-you Shall Not Shrink.

Heaven Has Not Learned Of My Arrival, And My Departure Will Not In The Least Diminish It Beauty And Grandeur. I Will Sleep Underground, For Us Ephemeral Mortals, The Only Eternity Is The Moment And Drinking To The Moment Is Better Than Weeping For It.

This Body Is A Tent Which For A Space Does The Pure Soul With Kingly Presence Grace; When He Departs, Comes The Tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes It, And Moves To A New Halting-place.