God Planteth In Mortal Men The Cause

Watchful Are The Gods Of All Hands With Slaughter Stained. The Black Furies Wait, And When A Man Has Grown By Luck, Not Justice, Great, With Sudden Overturn Of Chance They Wear Him To A Shade, And, Cast Down To Perdition, Who Shall Save Him?

Old Men Are Children Once Again A Dream That Sways And Wavers Into The Hard Light Of Day.

There's Only Few People Who Have Strength To Honor Someone's Achievement Without Envy.

Nought Is There In Wealth That Serves As Bulwark 'gainst The Subtle Stealth Of Destiny And Doom.

Bonds And The Pangs Of Hunger Are Excellent Prophet Doctors For The Wits.