Do we, holding that the gods exist, deceive ourselves with insubstantial dreams and lies, while random careless chance and change alone control the world?
A sweet thing, for whatever time, to revisit in dreams the dear dad we have lost.
Few have greater riches than the joy That comes to us in visions, In dreams which nobody can take away.
Alas, how right the ancient saying is: We, who are old, are nothing else but noise And shape. Like mimicries of dreams we go, And have no wits, although we think us wise.
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