While the wind makes free with his hair like a wanton trull,
Vacantly contemplating the dawn of another day
Full of little whisperings like a dead tree;
The multitude of foolish men who interrogate each other, fight, talk, and cast their eyes this way and that,
And then, turning towards us the hairy side of the head, disappear like the Manes;
The catastrophes and the sombre passions;
The clouds that cover the hills with shadows; the cries of beasts, the hum of the villages, the clatter of the highways;
The wood, and the chant of the coursing wind; the carts that are charged with sheaves and flowers;
And the Victories that pass their appointed way like harvesters, with swarthy cheeks,
Veiled and bearing a drum on a golden thigh.