Virgil

A mighty pomp, though made of little things.

Floating towards the starry sky through the clear summer air.

Without thee, nothing lofty can I sing.

Slight is the subject, but the praise not small.

Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul.

These storms of passion, these conflicts so fierce, by the tossing of a little dust are quelled and laid to rest.

Yet theirs is repose without care, and a life that knows no fraud, but is rich in treasures manifold.

All, with united force, combine to drive

The lazy drones from the laborious hive.

But the commanding Muse my chariot guides,

Which o'er the dubious cliff securely rides;

And pleased I am, no beaten road to take,

But first the way to new discoveries make.

So deep is their love of flowers and their glory in begetting honey.

But time meanwhile is flying, flying beyond recall.

In youth alone, unhappy mortals live;

But, ah! the mighty bliss is fugitive:

Discoloured sickness, anxious labour, come,

And age, and death's inexorable doom.