...like That Star Of The Waning Summer

What Mighty Woes To Thy Imperial Race From Woman Rose.

The Skin Of The Coward Changes Color All The Time, He Can't Get A Grip On Himself, He Can't Sit Still, He Squats And Rocks, Shifting His Weight From Foot To Foot, His Heart Racing, Pounding Inside The Fellow's Ribs, His Teeth Chattering. He Dreads Some Grisly Death. But The Skin Of A Brave Soldier Never Blanches. He's All Control. Tense But No Great Fear.

Beyond His Strength No Man Can Fight, Although He Be Eager.

Yet, Taught By Time, My Heart Has Learned To Glow For Other's Good, And Melt At Other's Woe.

There Is No Fouler Fiend Than A Woman When Her Mind Is Bent To Evil.