I've Gone Back In Time To When

All Men Have Need Of The Gods.

The Windy Satisfaction Of The Tongue.

A Glorious Death Is His, Who For His Country Falls.

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.

Be Still My Heart; Thou Hast Known Worse Than This.