Ares Ever Loves To Pluck All The

The Gods At Will Can Shape A Gladder Strain, And From The Lamentations At The Graveside, A Song Of Triumph May Arise.

There Is No Pain So Great As The Memory Of Joy In Present Grief.

Beyond Age, Leaf Withered, Man Goes Three Footed No Stronger Than A Child Is, A Dream That Falters In Daylight.

The Holy Heaven Yearns To Wound The Earth, And Yearning Layeth Hold On The Earth To Join In Wedlock; The Rain, Fallen From The Amorous Heaven, Impregnates The Earth, And It Bringeth Forth For Mankind The Food Of Flocks And Herds And Demeter's Gifts; And From That Moist Marriage-rite The Woods Put On Their Bloom.

From A Just Fraud God Turneth Not Away.