As Leaves On The Trees, Such Is

It Is Not Right To Glory In The Slain

There Is Nothing Worse For Mortals Than A Wandering Life.

A Little Child Born Yesterday A Thing On Mother's Milk And Kisses Fed.

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.

Bad Herdsmen Waste The Flocks Which Thou Hast Left Behind.