Beyond his strength no man can fight, although he be eager.

We all scribble poetry.

The sun rose on the flawless brimming sea into a sky all brazen-all one brightening for gods immortal and for mortal men on plowlands kind with grain.

A small rock holds back a great wave.

Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.

A gun is not a weapon! It's a tool, like a butcher's knife, or a harpoon, or an alligator.

Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.