Once You Go Vatican, You Never Go

One Who Journeying Along A Way He Knows Not, Having Crossed A Place Of Drear Extent, Before Him Sees A River Rushing Swiftly Toward The Deep, And All Its Tossing Current White With Foam, And Stops And Turns, And Measures Back His Way.

Wine Sets Even A Thoughtful Man To Singing, Or Sets Him Into Softly Laughing, Sets Him To Dancing. Sometimes It Tosses Out A Word That Was Better Unspoken.

So, The Gods Don't Hand Out All Their Gifts At Once, Not Build And Brains And Flowing Speech To All. One Man May Fail To Impress Us With His Looks But A God Can Crown His Words With Beauty, Charm, And Men Look On With Delight When He Speaks Out. Never Faltering, Filled With Winning Self-control, He Shines Forth At Assembly Grounds And People Gaze At Him Like A God When He Walks Through The Streets. Another Man May Look Like A Deathless One On High But There's Not A Bit Of Grace To Crown His Words. Just Like You, My Fine, Handsome Friend.

The Skin Of The Coward Changes Color All The Time, He Can't Get A Grip On Himself, He Can't Sit Still, He Squats And Rocks, Shifting His Weight From Foot To Foot, His Heart Racing, Pounding Inside The Fellow's Ribs, His Teeth Chattering. He Dreads Some Grisly Death. But The Skin Of A Brave Soldier Never Blanches. He's All Control. Tense But No Great Fear.

Close To The Gates A Spacious Garden Lies, From The Storms Defended And Inclement Skies; Four Acres Was The Allotted Space Of Ground, Fenc'd With A Green Enclosure All Around. Tall Thriving Trees Confessed The Fruitful Mold: The Reddening Apple Ripens Here To Gold, Here The Blue Fig With Luscious Juice Overflows, With Deeper Red The Full Pomegranate Glows, The Branch Here Bends Beneath The Weighty Pear, And Verdant Olives Flourish Round The Year.