A Woman Is A Lot Like A

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

It Never Was Our Guise To Slight The Poor, Or Aught Humane Despise.

Why, You Could Wake Up Dead Tomorrow

Restrain Yourself... And Gloat In Silence. I'll Have No Jubilation Here. It Is An Impious Thing To Exult Over The Slain.

Like The Generations Of Leaves, The Lives Of Mortal Men. Now The Wind Scatters The Old Leaves Across The Earth, Now The Living Timber Bursts With The New Buds And Spring Comes Round Again. And So With Men: As One Generation Comes To Life, Another Dies Away.