Things human last so short a time:
he spoke true
the blind poet of Chios:
similar in nature are
the leaves, and humanity.
But there are few who take
these words to heart. All have
unquiet hope, the child
of youth, to live with them.
While the flower of our
green age shows bright,
the free, proud soul
vainly feeds a hundred sweet thoughts,
not knowing death or age: in health
and strength a man cares nothing for disease.
But he’s a fool who cannot see
how swiftly youth beats its wings,
how close the cradle
is to the pyre.
You, about to tread
the fatal path
to Pluto’s realms:
to present delight
commit brief life.