Its root lieth deep; it is delicate, yet lasting as the lilac-crocus of autumn.
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I saw, and asked not its name; I knew no language was so wealthy.
Though every heart of every clime findeth its echo within.
And yet, what shall I say? Is a sordid man capable of love?
Hath a seducer known it? Can an adulterer perceive it?
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Chaste, and looking up to God, as the fountain of tenderness and joy.
Quiet, yet flowing deep, as the Rhine among rivers.
Lasting, and knowing not change, it walketh in truth and sincerity.