It was the fruit on high,
From whence the chosen seed
Has found its moorless love
Therein, the human creed.
O soul of fatal refrain! ā
Like the corn, flowers a cover
Over its skin, doth feign
From a mood; there love can hover.
Ah! by the shore of moss
And through the thrown-up rocks
There whispers the toneful moon;
The mingling serenade looks.
From whence the chosen seed
Has found its moorless love
Therein, the human creed.
O soul of fatal refrain! ā
Like the corn, flowers a cover
Over its skin, doth feign
From a mood; there love can hover.
Ah! by the shore of moss
And through the thrown-up rocks
There whispers the toneful moon;
The mingling serenade looks.