To Be Free Of Belief And Unbelief

Thy Return Is As Another Sun To Heaven; A New Rose Blooming In The Garden Of The Soul.

Dust Into Dust, And Under Dust To Lie, Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, And-sans End!

The Grape That Can With Logic Absolute The Two-and-seventy Jarring Sects Confute: The Sovereign Alchemist That In A Trice Life's Leaden Metal Into Gold Transmute.

To-day Is Thine To Spend, But Not To-morrow; Counting On Morrows Breedeth Bankrupt Sorrow: O Squander Not This Breath That Heaven Hath Lent Thee; Make Not Too Sure Another Breath To Borrow.

We Are In Truth But Pieces On This Chess Board Of Life, Which In The End We Leave, Only To Drop One By One Into The Grave Of Nothingness.