We All Scribble Poetry.

Down From His Brow She Ran His Curls Like Thick Hyacinth Clusters Full Of Blooms

She Sent Him A Warm And Gentle Wind, And Lord Odysseus Was Happy As He Set His Sails To Catch The Breeze. He Sat Beside The Steering Oar And Used His Skill To Steer The Raft.

Sinks My Sad Soul With Sorrow To The Grave.

Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich In Barren Fame Return.

[but] Age, The Common Enemy Of Mankind, Has Laid His Hand Upon You; Would That It Had Fallen Upon Some Other, And That You Were Still Young.