O frivolous mind of man,
Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts!
Though man bewails you not,
How I bewail you!
Little in your prosperity
Do you seek counsel of the gods.
Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone.
In profound silence stern,
Among their savage gorges and cold springs,
Unvisited remain
The great oracular shrines.
Thither in your adversity
Do you betake yourselves for light,
But strangely misinterpret all you hear.
For you will not put on
New hearts with the inquirer’s holy robe,
And purged, considerate minds.
And him on whom, at the end
Of toil and dolour untold,
The gods have said that repose
At last shall descend undisturbed,—
Him you expect to behold
In an easy old age, in a happy home:
No end but this you praise.
But him on whom, in the prime
Of life, with vigor undimmed,
With unspent mind, and a soul
Unworn, undebased, undecayed,
Mournfully grating, the gates
Of the city of death have forever closed,—
Him, I count him, well-starred.