Whatever we take from this useless life, be it glory or fame, Love, science, or life itself, It's worth no more than the memory of a well-played game and a match won against a better player...

A verse repeating
A cool breeze,
Summer in the fields,
And the soul's courtyard
Vacant and sunlit...

Or, in winter, the snowy
summits in the distance,
The fireside where we sit
Singing tales handed down,
And a poem to tell all this...

The gods grant
Few pleasures beyond
These, which are nothing.
But they also grant
That we want no others.

Thank's it is Spring...