It Is Tedious To Tell Again Tales

But You, Achilles,/ There Is Not A Man In The World More Blest Than You--/ There Never Has Been, Never Will Be One./ Time Was, When You Were Alive, We Argives/ Honored You As A God, And Now Down Here, I See/ You Lord It Over The Dead In All Your Power./ So Grieve No More At Dying, Great Achilles.’ I Reassured The Ghost, But He Broke Out Protesting,/ ‘no Winning Words About Death To Me, Shining Odysseus!/ By God, I’d Rather Slave On Earth For Another Man--/ Some Dirt-poor Tenant Farmer Who Scrapes To Keep Alive—than Rule Down Here Over All The Breathless Dead.

Few Sons Are Equal To Their Fathers; Most Fall Short, All Too Few Surpass Them.

In Every Sorrowing Soul I Pour'd Delight, And Poverty Stood Smiling In My Sight.

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

Without Question It May Be Said Of Vancouver That Her Position, Geographically, Is Imperial To A Degree, That Her Possibilities Are Enormous, And That With But A Feeble Stretch Of The Imagination Those Possibilities Might Wisely Be Deemed Certainties.