| But we have mortal form, material tissue |
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| And yet, Earine, do violets white |
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| Death is the ocean of immortal rest |
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| Why fear? The light wind whitens all the brine |
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| O the precipitous cliffs, the amber sand |
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| Dew on the lawns, and fragrance of fresh flowers |
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| Truly the poet is omnipotent |
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| Earine has sucked the breath of Spring |
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| Delicious thus to enter Morning Land |
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| Will it be thus when the strange sleep of death |
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