And Not A Man Appears

Heaven Hears And Pities Hapless Men Like Me, For Sacred Ev'n To Gods Is Misery.

Insignificant Mortals, Who Are As Leaves Are, And Now Flourish And Grow Warm With Life, And Feed On What The Ground Gives, But Then Again Fade Away And Are Dead.

Reproach Is Infinite, And Knows No End So Voluble A Weapon Is The Tongue; Wounded, We Wound; And Neither Side Can Fail For Every Man Has Equal Strength To Rail.

I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf, In The Home Of A Man Without Fortune, One Whose Livelihood Was Meager, Than Rule Over All The Departed Dead.

The Tongue Of Man Is A Twisty Thing, There Are Plenty Of Words There Of Every Kind.