In what finite tendon dost thou rise?
Though 'pon the omnipresence thence we find
The glory of wicked truth which flaps its wings to bind
All but the hollow lute, that pipes its strain yon
Lower hill mid vat of fragrance. Ah, ye
Melancholy 'frain, oft have I left thee
To slumber my memory of such real disdain!
I mend no path, since my faith is as
The star o'er noxious blue; within, my soul hath
Climbed unto thy tales of old, 'round fire listened.
I nobly saw that through history my youth came nigh
And whispered joy within my breast from efforts clear.
Forgive our memory stain! e'er this might of love
Hath meekly found its room, so called immortality.
Though 'pon the omnipresence thence we find
The glory of wicked truth which flaps its wings to bind
All but the hollow lute, that pipes its strain yon
Lower hill mid vat of fragrance. Ah, ye
Melancholy 'frain, oft have I left thee
To slumber my memory of such real disdain!
I mend no path, since my faith is as
The star o'er noxious blue; within, my soul hath
Climbed unto thy tales of old, 'round fire listened.
I nobly saw that through history my youth came nigh
And whispered joy within my breast from efforts clear.
Forgive our memory stain! e'er this might of love
Hath meekly found its room, so called immortality.