We can't all do everything.

Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.

Sing in me, muse, of arms and a man, who first from the shores of Troy.

I will be gone from here and sing my songs/ In the forest wilderness where the wild beasts are,/ And carve in letters on the little trees/ The story of my love, and as the trees/ Will grow letters too will grow, to cry/ In a louder voice the story of my love.

Enter on the way of training while the spirits in youth are still pliable.

May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me. Lost to fame, let me love river and woodland.

Every man makes a god of his own desire