The moon no might may there acquire;
too spotty is she, too grim her form;
and night is never in that place.
Why should the moon climb there her course,
as 'twere with that rich light to vie,
that shineth upon the river's bank?
The planets' plight is all too poor;
the very sun is far too dim.
About that stream are trees full bright,
that bear full soon twelve fruits of life;
twelve times each year they bravely bear,
their fruit renewing every moon.