Less than the weed that grows beside thy door.
The gods they serve, the vintage they drink, nor by the way they fight, or love, or sin, but by the quality of the thought they think.
I shall go the way of the open sea
To the lands I knew before you came, And the cool ocean breezes shall blow from me The memory of your name.
Red lips like a living, laughing rose.
Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel
Men should be judged not by their tint of skin
For this is wisdom: to live, to take what fate, or the Gods, may give.
Often devotion to virtue arises from sated desire.