The storm has gone:
I hear the joyful birds, the hen,
returning to the path,
renews her cackling. See the clear sky
opening from the west, over the mountain:
the landscape clarifies,
the river gleams bright in the valley.
Now every heart is happy, on every side
there’s the noise of work
as they return to business.
The craftsman comes to the door,
his work in hand, singing,
to gaze at the humid sky:
a girl runs out to draw water
that’s charged with fresh rain:
and, from street to street,
the vegetable seller
raises his cry again
See the sun return, see how it’s smiling
from hills and farms. The servants
open balconies, terraces, lodges:
hear the harness clinking, far off
along the highway: as the traveller’s carriage
moves, once more, down the road.

      Every heart is happy.
When was life as sweet,
as pleasant as it is now?
When did men turn
to their work, or bend to
their studies with such love? Or begin
some new venture? Or were so forgetful
of old wrongs? Joy is born of pain:
vain joy, the fruit
of fear past, in one shaken,
and fearful of death,
who abhorred life before:
fear that made men sweat and tremble
in enduring anguish,
shivering, silent, pale: seeing
lightning, cloud, and wind,
moving to attack them.

      O kindly Nature,
these are your gifts,
these are the delights
you give to mortals. To be free
of pain is our delight.
You scatter ills with generous hands: grief
appears of itself, and pleasure, that’s so often
born of trouble, through the monstrous,
and the miraculous, is our only gain. The human
race, dear to the gods! Happy enough
to gain a breathing space
from sorrow: blessed
when death heals you of every grief.