Towering in the public square, Twenty cubits in the air, Rose his statue, carved in stone, Then, the king, disguised, unknown, Stood before his sculptured name Musing meekly, "What is fame? Fame is but a slow decay Even this shall pass away." Here's another line of poetry that makes me think of kitonbrioni... (this is about the haters) If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
