Oresteia

left behind from that host,
wait, sustaining our strength
75 that is equal to a child’s, leaning on our staves.
For the young marrow of the breast,
reigning within,
is equal to the old, and Ares The god of war is not in its place.
And the extreme old age, when the leaf
80 is already withering, goes on its three-footed path;
and being no better than a child,
it wanders, a day-appearing dream.

But you, daughter of Tyndareus,
Queen Clytemnestra,
85 what is the need? What is new? What have you heard,
and by the persuasion
of what tidings do you send around sacrifices?
The altars of all the city’s gods—
those above, those below,
90 those of the heavens, and those of the marketplace—
are blazing with gifts.
And from one side and another, a sky-high
flame rises,
soothed by the pure,
95 gentle, and guileless ointments,
the sacred cakes from the innermost palace.
Speak of these things, as much as you are able
and as the law allows,
and be a healer of this anxiety
100 which now sometimes becomes malignant,
but sometimes, by showing forth a kindly hope
from the sacrifices, wards off insatiable care.