And would the angels bear us globes of wine,
Grown rich with many a hundred golden years?
I fear me not, for one might deem you fair
And take away what I had known as mine,
To make my paradise a vale of tears.
Give me, then, earth with its humanity,
Born like a zephyr, soft, among the trees,
While sunlight dries the dewdrops from the rose.
Give me the earth, I crave not what may be
Beyond the height of skies or depth of seas;