The Sun Rose On The Flawless Brimming

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.

The Man Does Better Who Runs From Disaster Than He Who Is Caught By It.

The Roaring Seas And Many A Dark Range Of Mountains Lie Between Us.

Praise Me Not Too Much, Nor Blame Me, For Thou Speakest To The Greeks Who Know Me.

Men Grow Tired Of Sleep, Love, Singing And Dancing Sooner Than Of War.