Breathing the thin breath through our nostrils, we
Live, and a little space the sunlight see-
Even all that live- each being an instrument
To which the generous air its life has lent.
If with the hand one quench our draught of breath,
He sends the stark soul shuddering down to death.
We that are nothing on our pride are fed,
Seeing, but for a little air, we are as dead.

translated by William M. Hardinge