A Small Rock Holds Back

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.

Is He Not Sacred, Even To The Gods, The Wandering Man Who Comes In Weariness?

It Is Not Right To Glory In The Slain

And Endless Are The Modes Of Speech, And Far Extends From Side To Side The Field Of Words.

I Too Shall Lie In The Dust When I Am Dead, But Now Let Me Win Noble Renown.