I return to the newborn world, and the soft-soil fields, What their first birthing lifted to the shores Of light, and trusted to the wayward winds. First the Earth gave the shimmer of greenery And grasses to deck the hills; then over the meadows The flowering fields are bright with the color of springtime, And for all the trees that shoot into the air.

Not they who reject the gods are profane, but those who accept them.

From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.

Sweet it is, when on the high seas the winds are lashing the waters, to gaze from the land on another's struggles.

Such evil deeds could religion prompt.

It is pleasant, when the sea is high and the winds are dashing the waves about, to watch from the shores the struggles of another.

... we in the light sometimes fear what is no more to be feared than the things children in the dark hold in terror and imagine will come true.