Just Once I'd Like Someone To Call

What Greater Glory Attends A Man Than What He Wins With His Racing Feet And His Striving Hands?

Insignificant Mortals, Who Are As Leaves Are, And Now Flourish And Grow Warm With Life, And Feed On What The Ground Gives, But Then Again Fade Away And Are Dead.

Wine Can Of Their Wits The Wise Beguile, Make The Sage Frolic, And The Serious Smile

It Is Equally Wrong To Speed A Guest Who Does Not Want To Go, And To Keep One Back Who Is Eager. You Ought To Make Welcome The Present Guest, And Send Forth The One Who Wishes To Go.

And What He Greatly Thought, He Nobly Dared.