CHORUS
I
Much is there passing strange ;
Nothing surpassing mankind.
He it is loves to range
Over the ocean hoar,
Thorough the surges' roar,
South winds raging behind ;
Earth, too, wears he away,
The Mother of Gods on high,
Tireless, free from decay ;
With team he furrows the ground,
And the ploughs go round and round,
As year on year goes by.
Antigone
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