The Unbeliever Knows His Koran Best.

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.

And This I Know; Whether The One True Light Kindle To Love, Or Wrath Consume Me Quite, One Flash Of It Within The Tavern Caught Better Than In The Temple Lost Outright.

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.

Better Be Jocund With The Fruitful Grape Than Sadden After None, Or Bitter, Fruit.

Ah Love! Could You And I With Him Conspire To Grasp This Sorry Scheme Of Things Entire Would We Not Shatter It To Bits-and Then Re-mould It Nearer To The Heart's Desire?