Strayed in mid-youth, rouse up, nor sleep, for lo!
The days of youth like clouds of smoke will pass.
Ere evening falls, thou shalt be withered grass,
Though morning saw thee like a lily blow.

Why waste on ancestors a heated breath,
Or note which progeny was Abraham's?
Whether his food be herbs or Bashan rams,
Man, wretched wight, is on his way to death.
Translated by Israel Zangwill