Few Sons Are Like Their Fathers -

Shame Is No Comrade For The Poor, I Weet.

In Saffron-colored Mantle From The Tides Of Oceans Rose The Morning To Bright Light To Gods And Men.

And His Good Wife Will Tear Her Cheeks In Grief, His Sons Are Orphans And He, Soaking The Soil Red With His Own Blood, He Rots Away Himself-more Birds Than Women Flocking Round His Body!

…but There They Lay, Sprawled Across The Field, Craved Far More By The Vultures Than By Wives.

The Charity That Is A Trifle To Us Can Be Precious To Others.