And in their fashion very rioters, 585
There is a stillness, and they seem to make
Calm revelry in that their calm abode.
Them leaving to their joyous hours I pass,
Pass with a thought the life of the whole year
That is to come, the throng of woodland flowers, 590
And lilies that will dance upon the waves.
Say boldly then that solitude is not
Where these things are. He truly is alone,
He of the multitude whose eyes are doomed