God Help Me, I'm Just Not That

Now From His Breast Into The Eyes The Ache Of Longing Mounted, And He Wept At Last, His Dear Wife, Clear And Faithful, In His Arms, Longed For As The Sunwarmed Earth Is Longed For By A Swimmer Spent In Rough Water Where His Ship Went Down Under Poseidon's Blows, Gale Winds And Tons Of Sea. Few Men Can Keep Alive Through A Big Serf To Crawl, Clotted With Brine, On Kindly Beaches In Joy, In Joy, Knowing The Abyss Behind: And So She Too Rejoiced, Her Gaze Upon Her Husband, Her White Arms Round Him Pressed As Though Forever.

The Journey Is Its Own Reward.

As Leaves On The Trees, Such Is The Life Of Man.

There Is No Greater Fame For A Man Than That Which He Wins With His Footwork Or The Skill Of His Hands.

Few Sons Are Equal To Their Fathers; Most Fall Short, All Too Few Surpass Them.