Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.

Love That I Bear Within My Breast How Is My Armour Melted How My Heart

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.