Once a philosopher famed for austerity,

Left  Scythia  that he might taste luxury

And sailed to Greece where he met in his wanderings

A sage like the one Vergil has made memorable—

Who seemed a king or god, remote from mundane things,

Since  like the gods he was at peace  and all seemed well.

Now a garden enabled his life to expand

And the Scythian found him pruning hook in hand

Lopping here and there what looked unprofitable.

He  sundered and slendered , curtailing this and that,

Careful that not a dead twig be spared;

Then for care to excess, Nature paid a sure reward.

“But are you not inconsiderate?”

The Scythian inquired. He said, “Is it good

To denude a tree of twigs and leave it scarcely one?

Lay down your pruning hook; your onslaught is too rude.

Permit Time to do what needs to be done:

Dead wood will soon be adrift on the  Styx' dark flood." 

The sage said, “Remove sere boughs and when they are gone,

One has  benefited  what remain.”

The Scythian returned to his bleak shore,

Seized his own pruning hook, was at work hour on hour,

Enjoining upon any in the vicinity

That they work— the whole community.

He sheared off whatever was beautiful,

Indiscriminately trimmed and cut down,

Persevering in reduction

Beneath new moons and full 

Till none of his trees could bear.

 

In this Scythian

We have the injudicious man

Or so-called Stoic, who would restrain

His best emotions along with the depraved—

Renouncing each innocent thing that he craved.

As for me, such perverted logic is my bane. 

Don’t smother the fire in my heart which makes life dear;

Do not snuff me out yet. 

I’m not laid on my bier.