Caution Comes Too Late When We Are

Here Is Neither Want Of Appetite Nor Mouths, Pray Heaven We Be Not Scant Of Meat Or Mirth.

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

Alas!... What Is It, Valiant Knight, Save An Offering Of Sacrifice To A Demon Of Vain Glory, And A Passing Through The Fire Of Moloch? What Remains To You As A Prize Of All The Blood You Have Spilled, Of All The Travail And Pain You Have Endured, Of All The Tears Which Your Deeds Have Caused, When Death Hath Broken The Strong Man's Spear, And Overtaken The Speed Of His War-horse?

Never Was Flattery Lost On A Poet's Ear; A Simple Race, They Waste Their Toil For The Vain Tribute Of A Smile.

Adversity Is Like The Period Of The Rain. . . Cold, Comfortless, Unfriendly To People And To Animals; Yet From That Season Have Their Birth The Flower, The Fruit, The Date, The Rose And The Pomegranate.