For Not Many Men, The Proverb Saith,

Alas, Poor Men, Their Destiny. When All Goes Well A Shadow Will Overthrow It. If It Be Unkind One Stroke Of A Wet Sponge Wipes All The Picture Out.

In The Sinews Of The Dead There Is No Blood.

When A Tongue Fails To Send Forth Appropriate Shafts, There Might Be A Word To Act As Healer Of These.

Old Men Are Children Once Again A Dream That Sways And Wavers Into The Hard Light Of Day.

In Visions Of The Night, Like Dropping Rain, Descend The Many Memories Of Pain.