My husbandmen will tell me when spring-time is nigh, and when there will be work in the furrowed fields.

Thither I shall repair by cart or by boat, through the deep gorge, over the dizzy cliff, trees bursting merrily into leaf, the streamlet swelling from its tiny source.

Glad is this renewal of life in due season: but for me, I rejoice that my journey is over.

Ah, how short a time it is that we are here! Why, then, not set our hearts at rest, ceasing to trouble whether we remain or go?
What boots it to wear out the soul with anxious thoughts?
I want not wealth: I want not power: heaven is beyond my hopes.

Then let me stroll through the bright hours, as they pass, in my garden among my flowers; or I will mount the hill and sing my song, or weave my verse beside the limpid brook.