All Deaths Are Hateful To Miserable Mortals,

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

The Hearts Of Great Men Can Be Changed.

A Little Child Born Yesterday A Thing On Mother's Milk And Kisses Fed.

The Sun Rose On The Flawless Brimming Sea Into A Sky All Brazen-all One Brightening For Gods Immortal And For Mortal Men On Plowlands Kind With Grain.

A Gun Is Not A Weapon! It's A Tool, Like A Butcher's Knife, Or A Harpoon, Or An Alligator.