Sophocles, Antigone (in ancient Greek pronunciation)

Numberless are the world’s wonders, but none More wonderful than man; the storm-grey sea Yields to his prows, the huge crests bear him high; Earth, holy and inexhaustible, is graven With shining furrows where his plows have gone Year after year, the timeless labor of stallions. The lightboned birds and beasts that cling to cover, The lithe fish lighting their reaches of dim water, All are taken, tamed in the net of his mind; The lion on the hill, the wild horse windy-maned, Resign to him; and his blunt yoke has broken The sultry shoulders of the mountain bull. Words also, and thought as rapid as air, He fashions to his good use; statecraft is his, And his the skill that deflects the arrows of snow, The spears of winter rain: from every wind He has made himself secure–from all but one: In the late wind of death he cannot stand.