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Lo, song and sleep I love. For song's susurrus
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Anacreon's tettix, singing in the trees
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But we have mortal form, material tissue
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And yet, Earine, do violets white
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Death is the ocean of immortal rest
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Why fear? The light wind whitens all the brine
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Sometimes there comes a friendly visitant
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O, but one visitant, the nightingale!
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Truly the poet is omnipotent
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Earine has sucked the breath of Spring
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