I have a high art: I hurt with cruelty those who would wound me. - Archilochus of Paros

Her sprig of myrtle clothed her beautiful rose
That her hands were happily playing with,
And her hair fell
As darkness on her back and shoulders.
Someone
Right in the middle of the myrtle.

I don't like a general
who towers over the troops,
lordly with elegant locks
and trim mustachios.
Give me a stumpy soldier
glaringly bowlegged,
yet rockfirm on his feet,
and in his heart a giant.

Take the joy and bear the sorrow, looking past your hopes and fears: learn to recognize the measured
dance that orders all our years.