And the blood and strength of the Earth arose to our dazzling eyes!
Quiet, quiet and quiet, said the march of the wave beneath.
Oh, immaculate shone the mind while the lotos of silence grew!
And the sore heart heavy with youth was a clean blade straight in its sheath,
As we drank with a matchless dream in that chrism of salt and dew!
Death jams down on his spade in the bloom of our elvish orchard,
Even the root-curls crawl at the skeleton jokes he cracks;
Let’s make rhymes for a while, as our Youth goes out to be tortured!
We shall remember a moon till they hew us under the axe!