Pomace? Thou be no wastrel my friend. Sit back and remember yourself. You once, as they, danced with the moon and still rose with sun to toil in the day. You once, as they, sought pleasures in the breeze, leaped over streams, and gathered no moss. But now, you know the pleasure of the moment. The moss grows fat with warmth and caring. It sprouts, it grows, it envelopes. Now drink the healthy water, cold, clear, and bright as it never was. Let the young run. We watch. On the morrow will they toil under your gleaming eye and guiding hand. Till they, as you, are worn but true, will they know the pleasures of the left-overs
