Tell Me, O Muse, Of Travellers Far

The Tongue Of Man Is A Twisty Thing, There Are Plenty Of Words There Of Every Kind.

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.

Of Men Who Have A Sense Of Honor, More Come Through Alive Than Are Slain, But From Those Who Flee Comes Neither Glory Nor Any Help.

Few Sons Are Equal To Their Fathers; Most Fall Short, All Too Few Surpass Them.

It's Man's To Fight, But Heaven's To Give Success.