OF THE DECEPTIVE BREVITY OF LIFE

The swift arrow sought less eagerly
its assigned target, into which it sharply bit,
the festal Roman chariot over the dumb sand
did not crown the winning-post more silently

than precipitately, silently, our age
runs to its end. Even for one who doubts it,
beast that he is and naked of reason,
each sun as it is repeated is (as fatal as) a comet.

Does Carthage confess it and you not know it?
You are running into danger, Licio, if you persist
in following shadows and embracing deceptions.

The hours will hardly forgive you,
those hours that are wearing away the days,
those days that are gnawing away the years.