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 Sometimes as, cup in hand among the flowers,

I think on all my witty wasted hours,

I see that wine has been a fable too,

Yes! even wine—so false a world is ours.

Yet were it vain some other way to try,

Of all our lying wine is least a lie,

All earthly roads wind nowhere in the end,—-

What matters then the road we travel by?

Traveller in many lands—that too is nought!

And thou art rich and wise—alas! 'tis nought!

But, poor and foolish, thou hast stayed at home,—

Believe me, friend, that that is also nought!

O weary man upon a weary earth,

What is this toil that we call living worth?

This dreary agitation of the dust,

And all this strange mistake of mortal birth.