This Is The Law: Blood Spilt Upon

O Death The Healer, Scorn Thou Not, I Pray, To Come To Me: Of Cureless Ills Thou Art The One Physician. Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

Yet Though A Man Gets Many Wounds In Breast, He Dieth Not, Unless The Appointed Time, The Limit Of His Life's Span, Coincide; Nor Does The Man Who By The Hearth At Home Sits Still, Escape The Doom That Fate Decrees.

Ye Waves That O'er Th' Interminable Ocean Wreathe Your Crisped Smiles.

Success! To Thee, As To A God, Men Bend The Knee.

Who, Except The Gods, Can Live Time Through Forever Without Any Pain?