Why, pray tell, do some rush in
where angels fear to go?
Is something there that they might win,
a prize we cannot know,
we the stolid men of earth,
who plow our heavy days
from the morning of our birth
until our evening haze?
What calls the brave we might call fools
unto their destiny?
What makes them scoff at homely rules
that rule the likes of me,
and in mad courage will they stand
with heads unbowed at God's right hand?
Sylvia is the bravest of the brave, especially when ice cream is the reward.
ice cream is my favorite reward, too
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