Only great peace

brings wealth to men

and the 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 the 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 the happy outdoor

             banquets,

and the lovely hymns sung by children

spring like fire up into the bright air.

 

                                       — Bakchylides

 

 

 

 

 

^Bakchic: having to do with Bacchus,

             god of wine and merrymaking

Peace 

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