The Loser, When A Game Of Dice

The Heaven That Rolls Around Cries Aloud To You While It Displays Its Eternal Beauties, And Yet Your Eyes Are Fixed Upon The Earth Alone.

As, Pricked Out With Less And Greater Lights, Between The Poles Of The Universe, The Milky Way So Gleameth White As To Set Very Sages Questioning.

…all Things Created Have An Order In Themselves, And This Begets The Form That Lets The Universe Resemble God.

There Is No Greater Pain Than To Remember, In Our Present Grief, Past Happiness.

O You, Who In Some Pretty Boat, Eager To Listen, Have Been Following Behind My Ship, That Singing Sails Along Turn Back To Look Again Upon Your Own Shores; Tempt Not The Deep, Lest Unawares, In Losing Me, You Yourselves Might Be Lost. The Sea I Sail Has Never Yet Been Passed; Minerva Breathes, And Pilots Me Apollo, And Muses Nine Point Out To Me The Bears. You Other Few Who Have Neck Uplifted Betimes To The Bread Of Angels Upon Which One Lives And Does Not Grow Sated, Well May You Launch Your Vessel Upon The Deep Sea.