The Journey Is The Thing.

A Boy Without Mischief Is Like A Bowling Ball Without A Liquid Center.

One Who Contends With Immortals Lives A Very Short Life.

Clanless, Lawless, Homeless Is He Who Is In Love With Civil War, That Brutal Ferocious Thing.

But He Whose Inborn Worth His Acts Commend, Of Gentle Soul, To Human Race A Friend.

Close To The Gates A Spacious Garden Lies, From The Storms Defended And Inclement Skies; Four Acres Was The Allotted Space Of Ground, Fenc'd With A Green Enclosure All Around. Tall Thriving Trees Confessed The Fruitful Mold: The Reddening Apple Ripens Here To Gold, Here The Blue Fig With Luscious Juice Overflows, With Deeper Red The Full Pomegranate Glows, The Branch Here Bends Beneath The Weighty Pear, And Verdant Olives Flourish Round The Year.