There Is A Fullness Of All Things,

Dreams Surely Are Difficult, Confusing, And Not Everything In Them Is Brought To Pass For Mankind. For Fleeting Dreams Have Two Gates: One Is Fashioned Of Horn And One Of Ivory. Those Which Pass Through The One Of Sawn Ivory Are Deceptive, Bringing Tidings Which Come To Nought, But Those Which Issue From The One Of Polished Horn Bring True Results When A Mortal Sees Them.

Sing, O Muse, Of The Rage Of Achilles, Son Of Peleus, That Brought Countless Ills Upon The Achaeans.

Like Strength Is Felt From Hope, And From Despair.

A Little Child Born Yesterday A Thing On Mother's Milk And Kisses Fed.

I Would Rather Be A Serf In A Poor Man's House And Be Above Ground Than Reign Among The Dead.