Of Men Who Have A Sense Of

Now From His Breast Into The Eyes The Ache Of Longing Mounted, And He Wept At Last, His Dear Wife, Clear And Faithful, In His Arms, Longed For As The Sunwarmed Earth Is Longed For By A Swimmer Spent In Rough Water Where His Ship Went Down Under Poseidon's Blows, Gale Winds And Tons Of Sea. Few Men Can Keep Alive Through A Big Serf To Crawl, Clotted With Brine, On Kindly Beaches In Joy, In Joy, Knowing The Abyss Behind: And So She Too Rejoiced, Her Gaze Upon Her Husband, Her White Arms Round Him Pressed As Though Forever.

Fear, O Achilles, The Wrath Of Heaven; Think On Your Own Father And Have Compassion Upon Me, Who Am The More Pitiable

Do Thou Restrain The Haughty Spirit In Thy Breast, For Better Far Is Gentle Courtesy.

I'm Like That Guy Who Single-handedly Built The Rocket And Flew To The Moon. What Was His Name? Apollo Creed?

Yea, And If Some God Shall Wreck Me In The Wine-dark Deep, Even So I Will Endure… For Already Have I Suffered Full Much, And Much Have I Toiled In Perils Of Waves And War. Let This Be Added To The Tale Of Those.