down from his brow she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters full of blooms
And they die an equal death — the idler and the man of mighty deeds.
Is he not sacred, even to the gods, the wandering man who comes in weariness?
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,- Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies: They fall successive, and successive rise.
The stars never lie, but the astrologers lie about the stars.
We are quick to flare up, we races of men on the earth.