Dear mother Earth, within your breast
Take old Amyntichus to rest,
Remembering the years, not few,
Spent in various toil for you.
Many's the time in you he'd plant
Olive-trees, that never want
For foliage, and array you fine
In livery of branching vine;
With fields of corn he'd make you rich,
And lead through many a channeled ditch
The waterbrooks, letting your ground
Abound with fruits, with herbs abound.
Lay, in return, a gentle, light
Burden upon his temples white,
And, for his grave's adornment, bring
Flowers and verdure in the spring.

"The Oxford Book of Greek Verse in Translation"
no. 677 'a gardener' circa 500 CE
(trans. R. A. Furless)
#lore #epitaph