There lies a secret buried none too deep."
Thus the chief rower. This the far-off tale.
I dwelled beside the impulsive Rhone, a child that loved to be alone.
The forest was my nursery. My happiness was all my own.
I knew by name each cloud that lowers the sunshine through in liquid showers.
Deep in the tangled undergrowth I caught the singing of the flowers.
Our minstrels sang of rape and arson, all the joys of private wars.
The forest wall was calm and tall. My tutor laughed, and drank to Mars.
Bald, vulture-like upon its perch, our crag-born castle seemed to search
The gorge for prey, its shade to still the bells a-twitter in the church