Not At All Similar Are The Race

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

Forgetful Youth! But Know, The Power Above With Ease Can Save Each Object Of His Love; Wide As His Will Extends His Boundless Grace.

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.

Words Empty As The Wind Are Best Left Unsaid.

Men In Their Generations Are Like The Leaves Of The Trees. The Wind Blows And One Year's Leaves Are Scattered On The Ground; But The Trees Burst Into Bud And Put On Fresh Ones When The Spring Comes Round.