Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint and heard great Argument
About it and about, but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah, whence and whither flown again, who knows?
From ‘The Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam’ by Edward Fitzgerald