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Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consum'd with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown :

Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings :
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ;
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings,
“ There is no joy but calm!”
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ?

Lo! in the middle of the wood

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud

With winds upon the branch, and there

Grows green

and broad, and takes no care,

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed : and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.

αϊ, αϊ, θυμοβόροις πονούμεν

ταλαίφρονες αύτως
ανακεστοτάταις άνίαις

ημείς πάρα δ' άλλοις
δια λυγράς ανάπαυσις διζύος,

όσ' έστιν ή μόνοισιν

είμαρται καμάτων αφύκτων
στένειν άλίαστα, θεών μετ' έργοις

πρωτεία μάταν λαχούσιν ;
ημίν τοις υπεράλλοις, χθονίων τους μεγ αρίστοις,

στρ. όρνις ως πτερύγων ακάματός τις πολυπλάγκτοισιν έρετμούς,

ύπνοιο κηληθμός αμβρότοιο
αρ' ούποτ' εμβάψει κάρα ;

πόνων άγευστος λέλoγχεν όλβον,
έναυλον τόδ' έφυμνεί 'ν φρεσί δαίμων.

φεύ· ύλας έν ομφαλοίσιν αβρότοισι, βλάσταν φύλλον υπεκδυν, ανέμου σαινόμενον κιναθίσμασι,

χλωρόν εύρυφυές βρύει,

ακτίνες δ' αμέριμνον
ένδιον, νυχία δ' αύτε σελάνα τρέφεν έρσα

άντ. τέλος δ' αλλόχρουν ρεϊ, κατά δ' ουρον μετέωρον διαφεύγει.

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Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juic'd apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life: ah, why Should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ?
All things have rest, and ripen tow’rd the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease.
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease!
θέρους εν αυγαϊς πέπoν τεθηλός,
ωραίον έπεσεν έννυχον

άκρας οπώρας άφωνα μάλον.
ζωάς μοιρίδιον τέρμα τελείας

άνθέων γένη κατάνυσαδυόσμων,
ακμάζοντ' απόνως, φρούδα δ' έπειτ' ώχετ' επασσυτέρα ροπά,

ευκάρποισι δυσεκλύτως
έρριζωμέν' αρούραις.



στυγνον πόλου κυάνεον βάθος πάλαι πορφυροειδούς

υπερτέταται θαλάττας:

ζωσιν θάνατος πέπρωται:
ζώντες δ' άπαύστω πόνω άλλως βίον αντλούμεν

έατ' έσσυμένων ρίμφ' ενιαύτων
σιγά τάχ' έπεισιν ούδεν

σταθμόν έχει βέβαιον.
πάντ' εκλέλοιπεν, φοβερό
δε των πάλαι σύζυγ ομίλω

φεύγει τί δ' άτερπές αιέν

άδμήτ', αμάχου κατ' άτας,
κλύδων έπ' άμβαίνομεν ; έσθ' άσυχίας πασιν

σύγ' εισερχομένας μοίρα καθ ώραν

τας πουλυπλάνων ονείρων,
ή θανάτου τύχοιμεν.


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How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech ;
Eating the Lotos, day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray:
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass !

Dear is the mem’ry of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears; but all hath suffer'd change :
For surely now our household hearths are cold :
Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange :

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