THE OTHER WORLD
By
Pindar
Poor creatures of a passing day. What is a man?
What is he not? We are scumbling shadow's
Dream. And yet there are brief moments
When the sun transfusing a cloudlet in the after-rain
Reminds us of a radiance that, pitched
Beyond the reach of our dark world, still touches us,
From time to time, with an unimagined glow.
&/\&/\&