Pearls tilted at foul swine are priceless lost.
For when the errant horseman, prideful, rides
Toward the mill where lies his goal in joust,
His pearls are grist—a meal made of his pride.
While foe sups well, the hero hungers still
And searches vainly for the stones he’s thrown,
Erewhile the foe does thrust his sword at will,
And pearls in balance, weighed, exact their own.
Does one so rash take heed and lessons learn,
That faith is bliss and life a deadly school?
Or does he carry on and justly earn
The coat of arms and heraldry of fool?
Whose life would end in quest of Golden Fleece
Should quit and pray for rest in faithful peace.
Beautiful!