I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf,

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.

Come Then, Put Away Your Sword In Its Sheath, And Let Us Two Go Up Into My Bed So That, Lying Together In The Bed Of Love, We May Then Have Faith And Trust In Each Other.

A Young Man Is Embarrassed To Question An Older One.

I Hate To Tell Again A Tale Once Fully Told.

It Is Not Right To Glory In The Slain