Narrow deckways ill-strewn, too, — what the day’s woeWe did not groan at getting for our portion?As for land-things, again, on went more hatred!Since beds were ours hard by the foemen’s ramparts,And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadowDews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damageOf vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting.Winter, too, if one told of it — bird-slaying —Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought —Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couchesWithout a wind, the sea would slumber falling— Why must one mourn these? O’er and gone is labour:O’er and gone is it, even to those dead ones,So that no more again they mind uprising.Why must we tell in numbers those deprived ones,And the live man be vexed with fate’s fresh outbreak?Rather, I bid full farewell to misfortunes!For us, the left from out the Argeian army,The gain beats, nor does sorrow counterbalance.So that ’t is fitly boasted of, this sunlight,