Had We But World Enough, And Time,

My Mind Was Once The True Survey Of All These Meadows Fresh And Gay; And In The Greenness Of The Grass Did See Its Hopes As In A Glass.

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness, Lady, Were No Crime.

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.

I Have A Garden Of My Own, But So With Roses Overgrown, And Lilies, That You Would It Guess To Be A Little Wilderness.

But Fate Does Iron Wedges Drive, And Always Crowds Itself Betwixt.