Mors
ultima línea rerum
A clod of earth my castle, my room a sawed board
My vault one foot deep, this is my underground ward
A hard rock - a pillow, a rotten rag - my outfit,
A worm is a servant - that's the whole world's profit.
|
|
|
A
Man
He is not a man who strives for a soldier's pay,
Nor who stains his hands with blood a fool to repay.
Not he who has ample courage and great power,
Nor he for whom life is not worth living longer.
Not he who tears ropes and breaks an iron horseshoe
In his hands, not the one who can twist and wrench too
A steel nail or can stop a mill wheel in its gate
Or who can break up with his forehead an oak plate.
Not the one who breaks with his head somebody's door, io Nor he who
gulps down several gallons or more.
Not the one who manages with luck his duels,
Nor in whose heart no fear of enemy dwells.
Not he whose arm is stronger or can withstand blow
Not he who can endure considerable woes.
But the one who bore bravely Fortune's punishment
Or disappointments and who never underwent
Any change at all in good days or in distress,
Him I call a man and thank for his manliness.
|
