Birth of the word is by agony molded,
Through earthly life it is quietly going,
It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden
Pitcher the drops of the savagesâ?? mourning. ...
I know: to the trees, but not to us,
Perfection of the life is given, whole.
And on the Earth â?? the sister of the stars â??
We live in exile, while they do at home. ...
In the days when the God eternal
Was declining face to the new world,
By the Word they stopped the sunâ??s inferno,
And destroyed the towns by the Word. ...
What? Dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart?
To take all mine and give me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic or that art
That what they get they ever do retain?
Play not the tyrant, but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen, if but for pity's sake;
Or, cruel, if thou canst not, let us 'scourse,
And, for one piece of thine, my whole heart take.
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