HOW then shall man so order life that when his tale of years is told, Like sated guest he wend his way; how shall his even tenour hold?

Despite the Writ that stores the skull; despite the Table and the Pen*; Maugre the Fate that plays us down, her board the world, her pieces men?

How when the light and glow of life wax dim in thickly gath’ering gloom, Shall mortal scoff at sting of Death, shall scorn the victory of the Tomb?

One way, two paths, one end the grave. This runs athwart the flow’ery plain, That breasts the bush, the steep, the crag, in sun and wind and snow and rain: