Hermarchus, Seeing the Bust of Epicurus

The following is a poem by our friend Joshua.

Ho! I–Master, I held from grief. We laid
Your body to its rest beneath the sky
And sun. What then to grieve? Thy atoms fly
Scattered, thy soul at more than peace which said
“Death is nothing”–but here! Thy sculptured head
Is wreathed with leaves of bay. Ah, how can I
Fall to grief? Your students with laughing cries
Honor you–your ‘membrance blesses their bread.

Should scholarchs fail, and birds alone here warble–
Should vine and olive go to sage and sorrel–
Still aged men would carve your like in marble
And shining youth crown thy head with laurel.

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About Hiram

Hiram is an author from the north side of Chicago who has written for The Humanist, Occupy, Infidels, Ateistas de Puerto Rico, El Nuevo Dia, and other publications. His book Tending the Epicurean Garden (Humanist Press, 2014) is a contemporary and interdisciplinary introduction to Epicureanism. He earned a BA in Interdisciplinary Studies from NEIU.