Wine Gives Strength To Weary Men.

Lay Ye Down The Golden Chain From Heaven, And Pull At Its Inferior Links Both Goddesses And Gods.

I Want To Be Alone With My Thought.

Like A Girl, A Baby Running After Her Mother, Begging To Be Picked Up, And She Tugs On Her Skirts, Holding Her Back As She Tries To Hurry Off—all Tears, Fawning Up At Her, Till She Takes Her In Her Arms… That’s How You Look, Patroclus, Streaming Live Tears.

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.

That Is The Gods' Work, Spinning Threads Of Death Through The Lives Of Mortal Men, An All To Make A Song For Those To Come.