And By The Sacred Parchment,

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.

Each Man Delights In The Work That Suits Him Best.

It Is A Wise Child That Knows His Own Father. [lat., Nondum Enim Quisquam Suum Parentem Ipse Cognosvit.]

There Is A Time For Many Words, And There Is Also A Time For Sleep.

It Is The Bold Man Who Every Time Does Best, At Home Or Abroad.