More wonderful than man; the storm-grey sea
Yields to his prows; high crests bear him high;
Earth, holy and inexhausible, is graven
With shining furrows where his plows have gone
Year after year, the timeless labor of stallions.
Antistrophe 2: The light-boned birds and beasts that cling to cover The lithe fish lighting their reaches of dim water,
All are taken, 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.
Strophe 2: Words also, and thoughts as rapid as air,
He fashions to good use; statecraft is his,
And his the skill that delfects the arrows of snow,
The spears of winter rain: from every wind
He has made himself secure -- in all but one;
In the late wind of death he cannot stand.
Antistrophe 2: O clear intelligence, force beyond all measure!
O fate of man, both good and evil!
When the laws are kept, how his city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of his city then?
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth, Never be it said that his thoughts are my thoughts.