From the Hymn of Empedocles

IS it so small a thing
          To have enjoy'd the sun,
          To have lived light in the spring,
          To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
         To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

          That we must feign a bliss
          Of doubtful future date,
          And while we dream on this
          Lose all our present state,
         And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

          Not much, I know, you prize
          What pleasures may be had,
          Who look on life with eyes
          Estranged, like mine, and sad:
         And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

          Who 's loth to leave this life
          Which to him little yields:
          His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,
          His often-labour'd fields;
         The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.
 
          But thou, because thou hear'st
          Men scoff at Heaven and Fate;
          Because the gods thou fear'st
          Fail to make blest thy state,
         Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.
 
          I say, Fear not! life still
          Leaves human effort scope.
          But, since life teems with ill,
          Nurse no extravagant hope.
         Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.