Tell Me, O Muse, Of Travellers Far

The Generation Of Mankind Is Like The Generation Of Leaves. The Wind Scatters The Leaves On The Ground, But The Living Tree Burgeons With Leaves Again In The Spring.

But You, Achilles,/ There Is Not A Man In The World More Blest Than You--/ There Never Has Been, Never Will Be One./ Time Was, When You Were Alive, We Argives/ Honored You As A God, And Now Down Here, I See/ You Lord It Over The Dead In All Your Power./ So Grieve No More At Dying, Great Achilles.’ I Reassured The Ghost, But He Broke Out Protesting,/ ‘no Winning Words About Death To Me, Shining Odysseus!/ By God, I’d Rather Slave On Earth For Another Man--/ Some Dirt-poor Tenant Farmer Who Scrapes To Keep Alive—than Rule Down Here Over All The Breathless Dead.

Wine Can Of Their Wits The Wise Beguile, Make The Sage Frolic, And The Serious Smile

For Fate Has Wove The Thread Of Life With Pain, And Twins Ev'n From The Birth Are Misery And Man!

I Detest The Man Who Hides On Thing In The Depths Of His Heart And Speaks Forth Another.