Who Hearkens To The Gods,

't Is Fortune Gives Us Birth, But Jove Alone Endues The Soul With Worth.

There Is The Heat Of Love, The Pulsing Rush Of Longing, The Lover’s Whisper, Irresistible—magic To Make The Sanest Man Go Mad.

What So Tedious As A Twice-told Tale?

The Sex Is Ever To A Soldier Kind.

Like Leaves On Trees The Race Of Man Is Found,- Now Green In Youth, Now Withering On The Ground; Another Race The Following Spring Supplies: They Fall Successive, And Successive Rise.