There is no unmixed joy or sorrow here;
As children, our stomachs are still too weak
For the unmixed Falernian draught of joy.
On the other hand, our gracious Maker
Gives some surcease of grief to all who mourn,
Barring his enemy full victory
Within their fields of war: each human heart.
(I don’t know when I wrote this, but the image is drawn from my reading of A Slave of Catiline by Paul Anderson, a novel set in Ancient Rome. I’ve cross-posted it to my wiki. Feedback of any kind, including criticism, compliments, questions, suggestions (especially for a real title or what to post next), or anything else, is eagerly requested and greatly appreciated.)