the world’s wonders, but none
More wonderful than man; the storm-grey sea yields to his prows; the huge crests bear him
and inexhaustible, is graven
With shining furrows where the plows have gone
Year after year, the timeless labor of stallions.
birds and breasts that cling to cover,
The lithe filth lighting their reaches of dim water,
All are taken, tamed
in the net of his mind;
The lion on the hill, the
wild horse windy-maned,
Resign to him; and his blunt yoke has broken
The sultry shoulders of the mountain bull.
Words also, and thought as
rapid as air,
He fashions to his good use; statecraft is his,
And his the skill that deflects
the arrows of snow,
The spears of winter rain: from every wind
He has made himself secure-from
all but one:
In the late wind of death he cannot stand.
O clear intelligence,
force beyond all measure!
of man, working both good and evil!
When the laws are kept, how
proudly his city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of is city then?
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth,
Never be it said
that my thoughts are his thoughts.