The Song of Love, the Song of Hate, the Songs of Praise and of Thanksgiving I've learned them all, but there remains one called the Melody of Living.

Though man or angel judge my life and read it like an open scroll, And weigh my heart, I have judge more just than any—my own soul.

Tell Youth to play with Wine and Love and never bear away the scars! I may as well tilt up the sky and yet try not to spill the stars.

Whatever Juice this sky will pour this gaping parched old throat will drain What time the Harper harps I'll dance: 'tis He, not I, who shall complain. Meal may be scarce and cakes be burnt, yet I weep not nor even scold: The sun is food enough for me, 't is large, and has not yet grown cold.

Sometimes I think that all mankind exist but to be bought and sold: The rich man's paramour is gold, the poor man's goddess, gold, gold, gold.

But work a year and sleep an hour, and sleep a night and sing a day, And take a little wine and love, and when you feel religious—pray.

I saw them kissing in the shade and knew the sum of all my lore: God gave them Youth, God gave them Love, and even God can give no more.

At first, she loved nought else but flowers, And then-she only loved the rose And then-herself alone and then- She knew not what, but now-she knows.