In The Sinews Of The Dead There

For The Poison Of Hatred Seated Near The Heart Doubles The Burden For The One Who Suffers The Disease; He Is Burdened With His Own Sorrow, And Groans On Seeing Another's Happiness.

The Moving Light, Rejoicing In Its Strength, Sped From The Pyre Of Pine, And Urged Its Way, In Golden Glory, Like Some Strange New Sun.

It Is Always The Season For The Old To Learn.

On Him Who Wields Power Gently, The God Looks Favorably From Afar.

If You Pour Oil And Vinegar Into The Same Vessel, You Would Call Them Not Friends But Opponents.