A nation newly wakened into life,
Because of my one sin; and give the palm
Of victory to Fredegonde, whose life
Was sin in all its many changing forms?
How poor and futile are the sophistries
Of schools when one is drawing close to death,
That lies before us, silent, shadowy,
With veiled horizons and no guiding stars,
A vast, unfathomable, empty sea,
Broken by no white gleam of friendly sails,