Who Love Too Much, Hate In The

Restrain Yourself... And Gloat In Silence. I'll Have No Jubilation Here. It Is An Impious Thing To Exult Over The Slain.

One Who Journeying Along A Way He Knows Not, Having Crossed A Place Of Drear Extent, Before Him Sees A River Rushing Swiftly Toward The Deep, And All Its Tossing Current White With Foam, And Stops And Turns, And Measures Back His Way.

For I Am Yearning To Visit The Limits Of The All-nurturing Earth, And Oceans, From Whom The Gods Are Sprung.

The Life, Which Others Pay, Let Us Bestow, And Give To Fame What We To Nature Owe.

The Natural Thing, My Lord, Men And Women Joined.