Roll large-tongued consolation round me.
I have heard the weakling Wildbirds crying,
And the wailing Winds proclaim me brother.
I have heard these things and yet I perish.
From the Flowers, the myriad mouths of Forest,
Honey’d words have come, and from the Billows,
Bursting, issue of sweet cheering voices.
In this Midnight and moon-glamour’d Darkness,
Winds and Wildbirds crying give me pity;
But, altho’ I hear them, lo! I perish.