Anu Audol Tater Têchto Ticha
O not our own Karpathia's quiet vales,
O'er which the green-brow'd mountains girt with stone
Raise up to heaven their adamantine walls,
Making midst stars and clouds a glorious throne.
Not Pison pouring to Euphrate's tide,
Its golden-water fountain — not the juice
Which medicine's marvellous craft did erst produce
When Vulcan fann'd the fire — these will not hide,
These will not heal, my sorrows — I can find
No freshening stream to cool my burning breast,
No ointment on the wounds of life to bind —
Without its nymphs sweet Tempe were unblest;
Without its maidens, what were Arcady?
Without its Eve, what's paradise to me?
O'er which the green-brow'd mountains girt with stone
Raise up to heaven their adamantine walls,
Making midst stars and clouds a glorious throne.
Not Pison pouring to Euphrate's tide,
Its golden-water fountain — not the juice
Which medicine's marvellous craft did erst produce
When Vulcan fann'd the fire — these will not hide,
These will not heal, my sorrows — I can find
No freshening stream to cool my burning breast,
No ointment on the wounds of life to bind —
Without its nymphs sweet Tempe were unblest;
Without its maidens, what were Arcady?
Without its Eve, what's paradise to me?
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