Whenever A Man Is Tired,

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

Wine Sets Even A Thoughtful Man To Singing, Or Sets Him Into Softly Laughing, Sets Him To Dancing. Sometimes It Tosses Out A Word That Was Better Unspoken.

There Is A Time For Many Words, And There Is Also A Time For Sleep.

There Is Not Any Advantage To Be Won From Grim Lamentation.

Be Still My Heart; Thou Hast Known Worse Than This.