Epicurus was the sun; in his light
Wisdom of other men became as night,
His page tracks life to its source; there the whole
Is moulded by this father of the soul.
Mortal being is a medley; but as bees,
Ranging up and down, among flow’rs and trees,
In a woodland glade, sip everywhere,
Scorning nothing suckled by sunny air,
And turn all to honey, so his wise pen
Transmutes words into golden sweets for men.