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“Only great peace brings wealth to men and a flowering of honey-throated song, and to the gods ox-thighs burning and long-haired sheep flaming yellow on the sculpted altars, and to the young a love of wrestling and the flute and Bakchic dance. In the iron-covered shield the brown spider hangs his web. The sharpened spear and double-edge sword are flaked with rust. The noise of the brass trumpet is dead, and the honey of our dawnsleep is not dried from our eyelids. Streets clamor with happy outdoor banquets, and the lovely hymns sung by children spring like fire up into the bright air.” — Bakchylides
Only great peace
brings wealth to men
and a flowering of honey-throated song,
and to the gods
ox-thighs burning and long-haired sheep
flaming yellow on the sculpted altars,
and to the young
a love of wrestling and the flute
and Bakchic dance.
In the iron-covered shield
the brown spider hangs his web.
The sharpened spear and double-edge sword
are flaked with rust.
The noise of the brass trumpet is dead,
and the honey of our dawnsleep
is not dried from our eyelids.
Streets clamor with happy outdoor banquets,
and the lovely hymns sung by children
spring like fire up into the bright air.