It Is Not Good To

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

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.

To Labour Is The Lot Of Man Below; And When Jove Gave Us Life, He Gave Us Woe.

[but] Age, The Common Enemy Of Mankind, Has Laid His Hand Upon You; Would That It Had Fallen Upon Some Other, And That You Were Still Young.

It Is Wrong To Sorrow Without Ceasing.