More wonderful than man; the storm-grey sea
Yeilds to his prows; the huge crest bear him high;
Earth holy and inexhastible, is graven
With shining furrows where his plows have gone
Year after year, the timeless labor of stallions.
The light-boned birds that cling to cover,
The lithe fish lighning 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 yolk is broken
The sultry sholders of the mountain bull.
Words also, and through as rapid as air,
He fashions to his good use; statecraft is his,
And his the skill that deflects the arrow 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!
O fate of man, working both good and evil!
When the laws are kept, how proudly his city stands!
When his 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.