The myriad choices of his fateSet themselves out upon a plateFor him to chooseWhat had he to lose

It's a breath you took too late.It's a death that's worse than fate.

Grace will meet you in the valley, and her song will carry you home on the wind to another sky filled with ethereal beauty unfolding and love everlasting.

We should get jerseys, cause we make a good team; but yours would look better than mine, cause you're outta my league.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

I heard the voice of that bird, son of Polypas, whose piercing outcryand whose arrival announces to men the season when fieldsare plowed, and the voice of her broke the heart that darkens within me,since other men posess my flourishing acres now,and not for me are the mules dragging the plow through the grainland,since I have given my heart to the restless seafarer's life.