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Fifth HorsemanOn a hill, under stone, I sat alone and wrote,Of life, of love, of death, of war,When driven by some grand design,I saw five horses on a field below.I asked my soul, "who owns these?""Four old and secret forces in the world,One with a bow and a crown pure yet dark,That battles with the will and kind heart;To him the white steed belongs. In him,Conquest burns.""Another, his name you know well;His crimson sword has flashed,And killed a hundred in one blow.It is to him the red horse owes its color,For he is War, who paints all in blood.""This one belong to Famine,Whose black fingers scales of silver hold,To judge the worth of life against a meal.""This one, to Death, who shall have all.His is the pale horse and his is mourning,For in his embrace die all things, whether good,Or bad."I laughed, then, thinking my heart a fool,To so lead me, but the fifth horse remained."What of the fifth?", I asked, for that fine steed,While smaller than the rest, caught my eye."Loo
Pleasure and PermamenceO, flesh, o, pleasure!And yet, there is a spark of doubt.Where is the pleasure, where the flesh,when all will pass away so soon?Orange blossoms dry, and fruit will rot,But what remains then?The tree, or ground from which it grows?