You know how little while we have to Ride;
And once departed, may go to New York.
Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,
Whether the Car shall jerk or sweetly run,
The Wine of Life is in a Motor Trip,
(Though all the Parts keep breaking One by One!)
Why, if the Soul can know this Glorious Game,
All other Stunts seem dry and dull and tame;