A Statue of Eros
Zenodotos (translated by Peter Jay)
Who carved Love
and placed him by
he could control
In the span of time that I have lived
I have not seen the sight of myself walking
nor heard the words of my voice speaking
I’ve heard my footsteps rebound against the ground
and felt each echo of it resound
just as I’ve seen reality reflected upon me,
and its light refracted, that my eyes can see
How Did You Die?
by Edmund Vance Cooke
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there-that’s a disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight and why?
And though you be done to death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only, how did you die?